


For King & Country

by dabbingslytherin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adult Content, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Arranged Marriage, Canon Related, Depression, Drug Use, Explicit Language, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Political Expediency, Requited Unrequited Love, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 108,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22894792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabbingslytherin/pseuds/dabbingslytherin
Summary: King Alistair Therin faces pressure to secure succession to the Ferelden throne. Viscountess Marian Hawke is struggling to rebuild Kirkwall. Political machinations force the King and Viscountess to wed. Together they face conflict, intrigue and war, first as unlikely allies, then friends and finally, partners.Canon-based AU, beginning in the events of DA2 through to, and including events in the comics and DA:I.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Hawke
Comments: 56
Kudos: 50





	1. Prologue: Noble Intrigues

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been an idea that I have mused on for sometime (years). I wanted to explore politics in southern-Thedas specific to certain locations. This is a product of that exploration. Any thoughts and feedback are always welcome!
> 
> Warnings: There are sexual, language and mature/dark themes. I have indicated them in the tags and they apply throughout the duration of this work. Where I can, I will indicate specifically per chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy! x

_Kirkwall, 9:34 Dragon_

Waving at the barkeep as she passed, Marian Hawke trudged through the Hanged Man, covered in soot, dirt and blood. Corff, who tended the patrons of the Hanged Man called out to Marian that a bath was waiting for her in the suite occupied by Varric Tethras.

_Good, my legs are stiff with dried mud and dragon’s blood_ , Marian thought crankily.

There would be a fresh set of clothes waiting for her too, likely at Varric’s directive. Her immediate concern was a bath, a beer and forgetting the fact that there had been a freaking dragon eating the miners. Hubert was going to have to find reliable workers _again_. But that was his problem. Marian’s was finding a drink to numb the memory of an angry dragon. 

Marian let herself into Varric’s suite, beelining for the washroom where a steaming bath was waiting for her. Peeling herself out filthy armour and sweaty underclothes, she left it piled conspicuously in a corner and sank into the tub. The hot water soothed aching limbs and washed away the filth of the Bone Pit. Bodahn would fetch her belongings and return them to the estate. Her short, shaggy hair dripping water, Marian pulled on a threadbare, long-sleeve shirt, tucking the shirt tails into the dark suede trousers. Over the shirt, she buttoned a vest. Her grime encrusted boots were the only sign that she had been tromping through places where she probably shouldn’t have been. Now she could seek out a desperately needed beer.

Weaving through the tables, the patrons who were not slouched over drunk called out gruff greetings to the Champion of Kirkwall. At their regular table, which was within stumbling distance of the bar, but far enough away to be out of range when a scuffle inevitably broke out; Marian was surprised to find Isabela and Merrill sitting with Varric. The two women were very clean and did not look like they had just fought a dragon. She must have taken longer than she originally thought. Several empty mugs already decorated the tabletop and Varric grinned as Marian dropped into a vacant seat.

“So Hawke, a _dragon_?” Varric asked slyly. Marian ignored the quip, reaching forward to grab the closest mug of ale, taking a long gulp and grimacing slightly at the taste.

“After a dragon, Hubert might just give me the Bone Pit for free. It’s nothing but a pain in the arse.” Marian told Varric behind the rim of her mug.

Varric’s grin widened. “Just think Hawke, if you stop people dying, then you might actually make some money out of it.” The dwarf told her with false enthusiasm. Marian lowered her mug and stared at Varric, not amused: “I seem to recall a certain dwarf _urging_ me to invest in this mine.”

“I did suggest we try and shoo the dragon away, killing it seemed like a terrible waste.” Merrill commented absently, concentrating on the card game that she was playing with Isabela. Varric patted the elf on the shoulder in false comfort.

Scoffing at Merrill’s comment, Marian stood and made her way to the bar. She needed something much stronger than the piss weak drink that the Hanged Man called ale. Waving down Corff to place her order when patrons were pouring in after a hard day’s work was easier said than done. It didn’t matter who you were – you waited until it was your turn. Marian liked it that way, but not when she was thirsty for a strong drink or three. It was easier to have Isabela do the job; the pirate had a knack with gaining the bartender’s attention. Corff passed by, acknowledging her place with a grunt when Marian waved him down. Thirsty as she was, it seemed like it was going to be a day and a half before the man would get to her.

Then finally, Corff began to meander his way over to serve her, just as a newcomer pushed his way to the front, leaning over the bar-top to give Corff a brazened wave. Marian noticed the finer make of the intruder’s armour; a visitor, who didn’t care enough to follow the established status quo.

Mouth set in a firm line, Marian pulled a dagger from her belt, slamming it into the wood just shy of the man’s hand. “I don’t care what back alley you crawled out of, get in line.” She hissed in warning.

He turned towards Marian with an amused smirk, allowing Marian to better examine the armour, trying to identify where this idiot had indeed come from. The armour was well cared for, if plain and a bit old, making his allegiances impossible to determine. The armour-style was familiar, yet Marian couldn’t place where she knew it from. From what Marian could see of the sword sheathed on his waist, it too was of finer make, the hilt wrapped with what looked like a soft, dyed leather. Whoever this person was, it seemed that he did not wish to make his allegiances know. _Amateur_ , Marian judged. The Hanged Man wasn’t the place that one walked when they had considerable coin on hand. In fact, it was the place where one would be relieved of their coin.

For all these details, Marian noticed the man _inside_ the armour afterwards. Merrill would have described him as _handsome_ , _fuckable_ – Isabela. Marian settled on _nuisance_. Regardless of what Marian and her friends would have labelled this man, this newcomer was trouble in the making. It wouldn’t be the first time that an errant-noble with a hero-complex tried to up his respectability by dealing with the ne’er do wells who liked to frequent the Hanged Man. Varric liked to describe such ilk as _Hightown half-wits_.

“There’s welcome and welcoming. Is that a typical greeting?” The half-wit asked with a Ferelden accent. Marian frowned at the unexpected revelation and ignored his question. “Is it a Free Marches thing or a Kirkwall thing?” The kook pressed with a pointed, but casual glance at the knife that was embedded perilously close to his hand that rested on the bar top.

Still ignoring the dunderhead who dared to get between Marian and a strong drink, she leaned around him and requested the strongest whiskey that Corff had on hand with two cups. She’d deal with the dolt next to her after she’d gotten her drink and gossip. Corff plunked a bottle of whiskey in front of her, charging her five silver. It was likely that it would be just as shitty as the ale on tap, but spirit would numb her memory of having to fight a dragon that had decided to make its home in a _coalmine._ Grudgingly, she pulled the silver from the purse on her belt.

Corff went to take the silver in Marian’s hand, only to have Marian snatch it away. “I scratched your back Corff, now you need to scratch mine.” She reminded the bartender in a sing-song voice. A sideways glanced revealed the man next to her was watching the exchange with keen interest. Marian needed to wrap the conversation up and get back to Varric and the others before she treated him to a knuckle sandwich. The dagger was all but forgotten now.

Corff scoffed, used to Marian’s games. “If you wanted to know yesterday Hawke, then you need to pay up.” He scolded, as if she were a naughty child. “I’m not asking for a comprehensive members list and a home address. I want word of a location.” Corff held his palm out, beckoning for Marian to pay up, but she refused to budge.

A new cult had popped up in Lowtown, calling themselves ‘The Followers of She’. Gangs liked to come and go in Kirkwall, Marian liked to help them leave. But this cult had an edge on the others, there was a bet on the likelihood that the leader was likely possessed by a demon of some sort. Marian intended to collect. So she tried a different tact.

Yanking the cork out of her whiskey, Marian haphazardly poured a generous serve into her cup. “Haven’t these cultists been making trouble for the Hanged Man? It’s busy tonight, but don’t tell me that business hasn’t slacked off with those cultists attacking everything that moves.” She asked nonchalantly before taking a long sip, relishing the burn of alcohol in her throat. The man was still listening in on the conversation and in a bid to distract him, Marian pushed the empty cup and whiskey towards him.

Her words did the trick. “They’ve been disappearing down an alleyway off the entry of the Alienage.” Corff relented with a grunt. Smiling sweetly, Marian dropped the silvers for the whiskey into his beefy hand and then slid another few silvers across the bar for his trouble. The bartender winked at Marian as he picked up the tip and realizing that Corff had played her _once again_ , returned the wink with a rude gesture.

Next to her, the Ferelden chuckled. “An honesty day’s work?” He quipped. Snorting, Marian downed her drink in a decidedly unladylike fashion and poured herself another. She had hoped that he’d take the hint and piss off, but clearly that was too much to ask. “An honest day’s work was clearing out the dragon in the Bone Pit. _That_ was taking out the trash.” She gulped her second drink and poured a third.

“So what’s a rich Ferelden doing socialising with the commonfolk in Lowtown? The Crown & Beggar is probably more your style. Maybe you should piss off there. I’ll even show you the way.” The offer blurted out of her mouth, spur of the moment before she could stop herself. Momentarily disgusted with herself, Marian polished off the whiskey in her cup. 

“And miss being threatened bodily harmed by the Champion of Kirkwall herself? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” _Maker that voice was sinful_ was Marian’s first thought, the second: _shit, not another one_. With a grimace, she grabbed the whiskey bottle and drank straight from the bottle. It was one thing to be recognised in the street but having her ‘legendary feats’ cross the water was a whole other kettle of fish that Marian didn’t care to consider. Which meant the rich idiot next to her wanted something done.

_No rest for the wicked, as they say._

“If you want something done, it’s going to cost you. I don’t do mercenary work. So if you want someone killed, that’s off the table.” Varric had helped her come up with that response. It was surprisingly effective in weeding out the unsavoury pleas from the genuine ones. Perhaps it was only the people who saw her every day that knew that the mantle of Champion was a burden more than an honour. When she didn’t receive an immediate answer, Marian sneered and turned on her heel, yanking her dagger out of the wood. She’d wasted enough of her night entertaining this idiot. 

A gloved hand stopped her from storming off and finishing her whiskey in relative peace with her friends. He stepped closer to speak. “Three mages escaped the Gallows and sought refuge in Ferelden. Ferelden has been ordered to recover and return them. The King is concerned.” _Well shit._

Marian looked at her unexpected companion, her initial suspicions on what type of woodwork this man had crawled out of being far off bat. That said, it wasn’t the Champion of Kirkwall’s problem that mages kept escaping, nor that Knight-Commander Meredith was probably trying to strongarm the Ferelden into ensuring their return. That was a Chantry problem and Marian was tiring of the Chantry’s endless problems. Maybe the King of Ferelden’s agent was so stupid after all. Meredith’s watchdogs would sniff out a Ferelden agent from a mile away in Hightown. Conveniently running into the Champion of Kirkwall was a lucky bonus.

Figuring she should at least hear the man out before telling Ferelden to piss off – again – Marian turned back to the bar. “Oi, Corff. Another bottle!” Marian called, fishing a fistful of silver out of her purse and letting it clatter messily on the bar top. Another bottle appeared almost instantaneously.

Drinks in tow, Marian made for an empty table where they could talk a little more freely. This wasn’t a conversation that she would be happy for Corff to overhear. The bartender’s palm was a bit too itchy for coin for her liking sometimes. When she didn’t hear the tell-tale clink of armour following her, Marian

Bottles and cup in hand, Marian headed towards an empty table where they could talk more freely. When she didn’t hear the clatter of armour following, she turned. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked pointedly, wriggling the full bottle for emphasis.

“Only if you keep that knife of yours far away.”

“That armour of yours isn’t exactly inconspicuous. Any good mercenary with a braincell will know that you’ve got coin and try to gut you.” It was a backhanded warning, one that seemed to be received loudly and clearly. Marian made a point to pass by Varric and Merrill. Isabela had disappeared somewhere.

Varric caught her gaze, raising a brow in silent question. Marian shook her head, making sure to take a seat where she was facing her friends. It wouldn’t be the first time Varric and Isabela stepped in on her behalf, nor would it be the last. Ignoring her unwanted guest and not caring enough to make pleasantries, Marian took a swig from the bottle before tipping more liquor into both their cups. 

“Start at the beginning.”

*** * * * * * * * * ***

  
The whiskey bottle slid out from between her arm and hip, hitting the filthy floor with a surprisingly delicate tinkle, shattering on impact. Marian swore at the loss of her drink. Thoughts whirled in her mind, briefly settling on the solid evidence that Knight-Commander was off her chops. An opinion Marian had not-so-privately voiced earlier, much to the amusement of her dinner companion. But for the moment, there was a more pressing need: to prove a point though Marian had forgotten what that point was, because Meredith was barking mad. 

Battle-calloused hands wrestled the second bottle out of her hand and she watched, almost distraught as her companion drained what little liquid was left before their lips had met in a rough, whiskey flavoured kiss. Stubble scratched her exposed skin as whiskey-wet kisses were trailed down her neck, the sharp pinch of teeth nipping her collarbone had Marian stifling a moan. 

She had a point to prove, but her drink-addled mind had focused exclusively on the problem that Meredith was and she had questions damnit. Calloused fingers covered her mouth when she opened it to speak, his other hand pulling her backwards so Marian’s back was pressed against hard armour, the battered steel cooling heated skin. A hand cupped her breast through her vest.

Marian never was one to give up easily. “You said that Ferelden cannot go to war with Kirkwall” Her voice muffled, though she would not be deterred. “If the issue was pressed, we could, but–” The Ferelden’s comment was interrupted by Marian’s fingers running over well-worn leather pants and muscled thigh. “But…Ferelden cannot afford another war.” He finished. They stood in the corridor that bridged the accommodation area with the bar, the drunken racket coming from the bar all but drowned out their conversation.

Marian wasn’t sure how she was meant to be useful to Ferelden’s diplomatic issues, other than pointing out that Meredith was insane. The Ferelden was still trying to distract her with chapped lips planting light kisses along her jawline and moving up to her earlobe where he sucked lightly. Marian couldn’t help the escaped groan, but she still had _questions_. 

“If Kirkwall wants these mages back so badly, why is it a state issue? The apostates escaped Chantry control. It’s just Ferelden’s bad luck that they decided to hide out in Kirkwall.” Her vest had been unbuttoned and shirt untucked, now questing fingers were inching up her side, fiddling with the fabric of her breast band. Wanting a clear answer, Marian twisted out of the Ferelden’s grasp, with a deftness that shouldn’t have existed considering the amount of whiskey she’d imbibed. Their places now reversed, tawny eyes met clear blue, their chests both heaving. _This armour needs to come off_ , an errant thought flitted through Marian’s head.

“That’s what…the King said. Former templar you know? Not just a pretty face.”

“I wouldn’t know. Last time I fought for a Ferelden King; we got our arses handed to us by the darkspawn. Oh yeah and half the army deserting.” Marian mumbled trying to undo the knot that would enable her to remove the Ferelden’s breastplate.

Busy hands stilled at her comment. “You were at Ostagar?”

“It was a shit fight.” She still had nightmares of the advancing horde as Loghain’s armies sounded their retreat, leaving them all to their deaths.

“Yes it was.”

The pace suddenly slowed, their lips meeting again, less hurried this time but still with a fervour that Marian hadn’t experienced with another in a long time. Hands gripped her close, as if she would up and disappear. It was then that Marian remembered the point that she had been making before drunken teasing had moved to drunken daring, finding herself entangled with a Ferelden spy who clearly liked to live dangerously. Men really did have a one-track mind whenever there was alcohol involved. T

he ties on one side of the infuriating breast place had finally come loose and now she began on the other side. She hissed when the hard iron of a door handle pressed into the small of her back and a hand snuck past her to wriggle a key into the lock.

The lock clicked and she pushed the Ferelden away, cockily holding her hand out. “Pay up, you started this. _And_ , you still haven’t answered my question.” There was no coin in her hand and the Ferelden was smirking at her.

“You’re still standing outside my room.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Marian shot back and pushed the door open with her fist. Ushering herself into a sparsely decorated room which was surprisingly clean. Still waiting for her answer, Marian renewed her efforts in getting that breastplate off.

Even with alcohol dulling common sense, Marian truly didn’t think there was much she could do to help Ferelden, even if she wanted too. Not only would the country have more resources at their disposal in order to deal with the Knight-Commander, including the King _himself_ , Marian didn’t think that championing this issue would do her any favours. Not only was she the daughter of an escaped apostate from the very same Circle, but her own younger sister was currently housed in that same Circle. It was a recipe for disaster. Bethany still hadn’t spoken to Marian after all these years, but she would still put her sister’s safety above anything else. And that included Ferelden. 

“Kirkwall is attempting an alliance with Ferelden. It is not opposed, but the pressure to return these apostates is not helping negotiations. I – it was suggested that the Champion would be able to placate the Knight-Commander on this particular issue.” Perhaps if Marian were sober, she would be more satisfied with the answer. “That’s a crock of shit and we both know it.” She sniped, finally getting the last ties free and yanking pieces of armour off, letting them clatter to the floor loudly.

“You remind me of someone I once knew.”

“I get told that a lot, usually before people try to kill me.” Marian pulled at his belt buckle, their hips meeting. Hands trailed up and over the hardened muscle of his chest, yanking his undershirt off as an afterthought. Large hands gripped her behind, hips grinding against hers and Marian let out a satisfied sigh.

“Sure it’s not your friendly, welcoming personality?” The Ferelden challenged.

Marian pushed him onto the lumpy bed, straddling the man beneath her. “I’m not leaving without my coin.” She told him with a roll of her hips. That damning smirk returned and Marian had the urge to wipe if off his handsome face. She rolled her hips against his again, the answering groan silencing any smart retort as their lips met once more. 

*** * * * * * * * * ***

A sharp knock on the door caused Marian to let out a groan, as a parched mouth and pounding headache greeted her. Letting out a pained groan, she rolled over, fishing about for that blasted bottle of whiskey to help alleviate her suffering. Another gentle knock on the door made her groan again. Another day, another pressing matter that the Champion of Kirkwall _had_ to attend too. The city was a melting point of strained tensions between templar and mage and human and elf. Somehow, Marian was meant to placate and navigate them all.

Being hungover on such a morning, Marian dreamed of telling whoever was knocking at her front door to go fuck themselves. 

There was another persistent knock and Marian grumbled into her pillow. “Madam Hawke?” Marian groaned as Bodahn let himself into her room. The dwarf and his son Sandal had been permanent fixtures since the disastrous campaign into the Deep Roads. Despite her insistence that they didn’t have to pick up after her, Marian was grateful for their presence in the estate. Being alone in the estate terrified her, not that she would ever admit it.

“I apologise for waking you, but this came urgently from the Knight-Commander.” Marian groaned again. Champion of Kirkwall she may be, but Meredith Stannard; Knight-Commander was under the impression that Marian was at her beck and call. Bodahn handed her the letter and set a cup of water on the bedside table. Cursing the Knight-Commander, Marian tore at the envelope until the letter fell free. Blinking away blurry vision, she read the short note and cursed Meredith once more. 

The King of Ferelden was visiting Kirkwall. Her presence was required at a welcoming feast that evening. So it seemed that the Ferelden agent hadn’t been as discrete as they thought they had been. Or word of their nightly escapades had reached Meredith. Knight-Commander Meredith didn’t trust Marian as far as she could spit. This was merely a confirmation that she had her own spies watching Marian’s movements. Headache or not, Marian had to get out of bed now.

So she cursed the Knight-Commander again for good measure. 

Diplomatic affairs were not her cup of tea. Her idea of diplomacy was a fist to the face. Afterall, it was what had gotten her into this position into the first place.

Head swimming, Marian rolled out of bed. Marching in her underclothes out into the hallway, she called down to Bodahn that the Ferelden King was visiting and to prepare the house for visitors. She wouldn’t be surprised if Meredith had her babysitting their guests. Pulling on her clothes from the night before, Marian took the time to strap a sword to her belt and conceal a few knives on her person before heading to Darktown. She ignored the waiting Templar-messenger on her way out.

What better way to greet the King of Ferelden – who helped end the blight then by bringing along a former Grey Warden to his welcoming feast?

Aveline was going to lecture her for hours.

Meredith was going to be _fuming_.

Despite its location in the stinking bowels of Kirkwall, the clinic that Anders operated was busier than ever. Varric cooked Marian’s books so to speak, concealing the large amount of spare coin that Marian poured into the clinics operations and keeping food on Anders’ non-existent table. 

When she told the healer-mage what she wanted of him, Anders took one look at Marian and pushed a headache tonic into her hands.

“No. I am not going anywhere near the Knight-Commander.” Anders was looking at Marian as if she had sprouted another head. Maybe she had. “You said you knew the King once. She’s hardly going to arrest you on the spot in front of him.”

“Wouldn’t she though? We’ve both seen that she has a chokehold on the city.”

“There’s a reason why I want you there and it’s not just old connections. Trust me.”

Anders hesitated, hands full of clean linens that needed to be folded and put away. The mage looked as if he were going to flee the very spot that was a known safe space from the iron grip of the Kirkwall templars. So Marian eliminated one option by taking the linen from the healer’s hands and began to fold the long sheets of fabric.

“Look, there’s apostates involved. Simply standing in the room will be an asset.” Anders swore under his breath. “And Ferelden is involved somehow. The King wouldn’t journey here for afternoon tea with the Knight-Commander.” Marian nodded slowly, waiting for Anders to give in. He was a sucker for a mage’s plight and being able to stand there and actively undermine Meredith without the threat of being arrested was likely too good an opportunity to pass up.

Marian saw the exact moment that the healer gave into _that_ temptation. “Fine, but _you_ have to keep the Templars away from me.” Marian stopped her folding to clap her friend on the back.

“Meet at the estate, we’ll have to arrive together. You’d think that a public decree would stop the templars from following you.” Marian handed the pile of folded linen and Anders accepted it with a shake of his head. “This isn’t going to end well; I can already feel it.”

Marian playfully punched the mage’s arm, “none of that – its like we’re not used having the odds against us.”

Anders ignored her jibe, shooing her towards the entrance of the clinic. “Go on, Hawke. I’ll meet you tonight.” With a final salute, Marian showed herself out. Now she had to go talk to an irate Guard-Captain and hope that she wouldn’t be committed for wanting to stir up a little bit of innocent trouble.

An hour later, when Marian waltzed into Guard-Captain Aveline’s office, she found her friend sitting at her desk, a letter opened in front of her. She could see the torn wax seal of the Templar order. The Guard-Captain had evidently received the Knight-Commander’s summons, same as Marian had.

The Guard-Captain of Kirkwall didn’t look up. “Hawke.”

Marian perched on the desk, leaning over trying to see what was in the letter that her friend held. Aveline snatched it away out of sight. “Guard-Captain” she greeted airily.

Deciding not to beat about the bush, Marian added: “Anders is my plus one for this happy gathering that we must attend this evening.” Aveline shook her head in disbelief.

“Hawke. Are you trying to provoke the Knight-Commander? No. Don’t answer that, I already know what your answer will be.” Aveline said, exasperated. Marian was grateful for the tonic that Anders had given her. It was likely that the headache would have increased ten-fold with the direction that the conversation was heading.

“King Alistair is here because three mages escaped the Kirkwall Circle and sought asylum in Ferelden. Meredith wants them back, but now the apostates fall under Ferelden jurisdiction and not the Chantry. The King refuses to deport them.” The summary was quick, recounting on the important pieces of information. Aveline would likely get the full story later, though it wouldn’t be too surprising if Aveline was already aware of the missing mages. 

Aveline considered the new information, folding Meredith’s letter. “How does it feel to be the neutral party, Hawke? Fists aren’t going to be an option here.” Aveline deadpanned and Marian lightly punched the Guard-Captain.

“And just how exactly did you come across this information. You’ve always had to be dragged kicking and screaming into state matters.”

Marian opened her mouth and then closed it. Aveline did have a point there. 

“I just have one of those faces that people trust, you know?”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.” Aveline shot back. Marian shrugged offhandedly.

“Well…” Marian started and Aveline interrupted: “Some people have work to do.” Marian raised her brows and the Guard-Captain relented, for the moment at least. 

“Ferelden had one of their agents find me in the Hanged Man.” _We drank whiskey together._

“We spoke in length about the situation in Kirkwall.” _We stuck our tongues in each other’s mouths._ Marian looked down at her nails, bitten back to the quick nonchalantly.

“The King is concerned that this disagreement could end in war.” _The bastard never paid up._

Aveline Vallen was a driven woman. Marian had watched her lose a husband to the taint and leave him behind, fleeing for her life. She had joined the city-guard and helped provide for Marian’s mother whilst she had been running around in Athenril’s smuggling operation with Bethany. All of this, with her mouth set in a grim, yet firm line. For Aveline to look troubled was serious business indeed. If a suitable compromise couldn’t be found and the worst came to pass, it would be the City Guard who would shoulder the burden of conflict.

“The Knight-Commander isn’t a fool; she wouldn’t let Kirkwall go to war over apostates.” Aveline said uncertainly. Marian was unsure if the Guard-Captain was stating a fact or trying to convince herself that Meredith was acting in Kirkwall’s best interests.

“I was under the impression that Ferelden would do what was necessary to keep the peace.” Marian attempted to reassure her friend. She added: “I wouldn’t hold that same candle to Meredith though.”

Aveline didn’t respond, obviously considering what the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall could possibly do to avoid unnecessary conflict with a country with the resources to besiege the city.

Marian attempted to lighten the situation. “Though Ferelden is also under the delusion that I’m capable of placating her because I’m the _Champion of Kirkwall_.” Aveline huffed at that.

“You’re too busy riling _up_ the Knight-Commander to placate her.” She paused and looked at Marian with the too-familiar disproving glare. “That’s why you want Anders there.” She guessed accusatorily. Marian shrugged and tapped her nose, refusing to confirm nor deny her motivations with having a known _and_ wanted apostate to attend a diplomatic function. 

“Anders is coming to the estate first, thought I’d let you know in case you needed to change the patrol routes.”

Aveline nodded absently making a note on a spare piece of parchment. “We’ll talk later Hawke; I have to organise security.” Marian slid of the desk, patting her friend on the shoulder before taking her leave.

*** * * * * * * * * ***

As Marian approached the bottom of the Keep’s stairs, she froze.

Flames licked the stone streets and the choking scent of charred and burning flesh filled her nostrils. In the distance, she could hear desperate screams. Of their own accord, her hands went to her belt reaching for her sword. Clutching at empty air where her sword should have been, feeling only the flutter of her robe under her desperate hand, the panic doubled twofold. Marian turned on her heel, desperately searching for something, anything that she could use to the fight the Arishok. But it was in vain, she knew that. The Qunari were as thorough as they were brutal as they razed Kirkwall, purging the filth that rotted the city from the inside out in the name of the Qun. There would be nothing for her to use to defend herself.

She had come for her death. 

Her heart pounded in her chest; her hands clenched into hard fists. Her breathing quickened as pained and desperate screams grew louder and louder. Without a sword – without a weapon, she couldn’t help anyone anymore than she could help herself. Kirkwall would have to submit to the Arishok’s will or they would all die. The tattoos that marked her as _basalit-an_ burned on her left arm, a harsh reminder of what had – what was at stake. Now her breath came in short gasps, the flames licking closer; beginning to engulf _her._

A bloodied hand rested on her shoulder, turning her around. Staring at the sight of it, Marian opened her mouth to scream for help – for someone, something to save them all.

“Listen to my voice Hawke, focus on it. Tell me what they serve at the Hanged Man.” Anders voice cut through the nightmare and everything was scattered. But the question kept being repeated: what does the Hanged Man serve? 

“Shit. Shit ale.” The flames were receding, extinguishing around her as Anders asked her to repeat her answer. With the fires dying, so too did the scents of blood and burnt flesh. She repeated it now like a mantra, relying on the rhythm of the three words.

It was just her and Anders, far away from the Keep’s guarded entry that Marian hadn’t drawn unwanted attention. The mage had left hair loose, but combed out his face, wearing a finely stitched tunic and trousers, his boots cleaned and polished. In the dusky light, Anders was almost a stranger. Golden eyes peered at her in concern, as he urged Marian to take measured, deep breaths.

“I need a drink.” Marian finally croaked, as if she had just shouted herself hoarse. Anders gave a small smile as he patted her carefully on the shoulder, almost as if he knew that she didn’t want to be touched.

“Plenty to drink inside, Hawke.” The reminder of why they needed to go to the Keep in the first place was not pleasant at all. “Is it too late to turn around and go to the Hanged Man?” Exhaustion had set over her. Playing hospitable Champion of Kirkwall was absolutely the last thing she wanted to do right now, duty or not.

Anders gave a serious nod. “You dragged me here Hawke, you’re not getting out of it that easily.” It was a bad joke, but Marian rewarded Anders for his efforts with a small, but weak smile. It was tempting to turn on her heel and march straight to the Hanged Man and drink herself to oblivion, but she would have to persevere. She represented the people of Kirkwall in what little voice that was left under Meredith’s near authoritarian stewardship. Marian would push through it, but she didn’t have to do it on her own…

“Scout, I need Scout.” She announced to Anders. The Mabari had been left behind, much to the hound’s chagrin. Trying to compensate for leaving her dog behind, Marian had left Scout chewing on a chicken carcass in the foyer. The token was more to assuage her own guilt then to appease the hound, but it would keep Scout from incessantly barking.

“Do you want to give the Knight-Commander a heart attack?” Anders quizzed.

Marian shrugged. “Is that too much to ask?”

“All we can do is try.” Anders offered his arm to Marian and the two linked arms as they headed back to the Hawke Estate. 

As the city trembled under Meredith’s thumb of oppression, she found herself being pulled every which way, stretching her too far and too thin. It made her too tired, made her see shadows where there was none. It was easier to drink whiskey than to eat a hearty meal when her stomach continuously rolled with nausea. She hadn’t spoken of this to anyone, yet she wondered if Anders saw this, if the mage-healer was waiting for her to ask for his help. She opened her mouth, to ask him if he knew what afflicted her, how to take away the invisible pain that inflicted her waking moments. The words couldn’t form, so she closed her mouth with a frown and hurried ahead to fetch her hound. 

Anders was waiting for them in the foyer. Scout bounded ahead of her mistress, her fur shining. Marian had fitted a colourful, braided collar around the hound’s muscled neck and she galloped up to Anders, barking excitedly. Hawke too had added to her an assemble, picking up a longsword on her way out, which she strapped to her belt. She saw Anders glance at the weapon, expecting him to comment on the unnecessary addition only to turn his attention back to a whining Scout who was eager to be underway. 

This time as they approached the Keep a second time, Hawke didn’t falter. Scout trotted up the steps beside her and Marian laced her fingers through Scout’s collar, feeling the comforting warmth of her fur. She didn’t see Anders’ frown. Inside the atrium, Aveline was waiting for them, pacing back and forth. 

Marian came to a sudden stop, taking in the restored splendour and not bothering to hide the disgust that she felt at the obvious improvements. “Of course this would be the first thing that gets restored.” She snarled. Anders seemed to agree, but Aveline stopped her pacing to fix Marian with a stern glare. 

“Hawke, you need to behave.” Aveline snipped, already on edge. Anders caught the Guard-Captain’s eye and shook his head. Marian shot the mage a thankful smile. Aveline considered the Champion of Kirkwall, yet didn’t push the issue further, which Marian was grateful for. 

The detour to fetch Scout and a sword meant that Marian and Anders were late. The ornate, wooden doors were wide open and Marian could see that most, if not all of Kirkwall’s high society were milling about the restored keep.

A herald was waiting to announce the Champion of Kirkwall and her guest, not that anyone stopped to properly acknowledge Marian’s arrival. That was fine, Marian didn’t care much for their pompous snobbery either. Still she stepped forward with her head held high, blind to the pointed looks of disapproval and judging sneers. Scout pranced beside her mistress, tongue lolling in such a way that it could only be deliberate. Marian was sure no one noticed the tremble in her hands.

Aveline was waylaid by one of the guests on her re-entry, leaving Marian with one less ally when Knight-Commander Meredith approached Marian to greet her personally. The Knight-Commander was already scowling, despite the half-empty wine-goblet in her hand. 

“How kind of you to join us, Champion.” Meredith drawled. Marian forced a pleasant smile.

“Of course Knight-Commander, I apologise for the delay.” Her response was pithy and pointed. Meredith frowned, her mouth thinning with displeasure when she recognized Anders who was standing beside her. Meredith took half a step closer, her hard gaze focused entirely on Anders. To his credit, the mage didn’t waver nor allowed Justice to shine through like he normally would have.

That hard gaze transferred to Marian. “Champion you try my patience by bringing the apostate here.” Marian bit back the urge to laugh. Of course Meredith would have recognised Anders, even with tailored, clean clothes and freshly washed hair. The woman was unlike a Mabari, able to sniff out a mage from a mile away. 

Marian met Meredith’s stare. “ _Anders_ is my guest. Not only is he under _my_ protection, but he is also a former acquaintance of King Alistair’s.” The haughty air wasn’t faked, though as Meredith visually swallowed her outrage, it was difficult to contain her glee at silencing the intolerant Knight-Commander.

Marian still had a point to push. “Anders here is irrelevant, we both know that the only reason I am here is because you need someone to pander to your whims. What do you want?” Meredith’s eyes narrowed and her frown deepened. Meredith went to respond but waited as a waiter carrying a tray of wine passed by. Marian snared glasses for herself and Anders. Not enough wine could possibly be served that would get her through the evening relatively unscathed.

“I am attempting to ally Ferelden and Kirkwall. We have fulfilled our side of the agreement, when it matters, Ferelden is regressing on theirs.” Marian had to give Meredith some credit, it wasn’t an outright lie, but the Knight-Commander wasn’t speaking the whole truth. Scout shifted under Marian’s hand and to calm her hound, Marian stroked velvety ears.

Marian took a deep draught of sweet wine from her goblet. “And what exactly do you think I can do that you haven’t already?” She asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness in her voice. 

“You are Ferelden-born and loyal to Kirkwall. That position is a unique one to hold.”

It was a valid argument, but Marian wasn’t convinced. “And what do you want me to say? That it’s in Ferelden’s best interests to ally with Kirkwall, take it from the Ferelden refugee who killed a Qunari?” Beside her, Anders snorted softly into his wine. Meredith’s brows were furrowed together in clear displeasure.

Kirkwall was without a leader after Viscount Marlowe Dumar’s shocking death at the hands of the Arishok. With no heir, Dumar’s death had passed into the stewardship of the Templar Order – into Meredith’s hands. But it was Kirkwall’s seneschal who tended to city-state matters whilst everyone who mattered debated over a suitable candidate to step into the role of Viscount. Unfortunately for most people who were engaged in that debate, Marian’s position as the Champion of Kirkwall, combined with her links to the noble house of Amell, gave her a solid foothold in the chain of influence _and_ power.

Those in the legislative and judiciary considered the Champion of Kirkwall as nothing more than a lackey under the Knight-Commander Meredith’s whim. A public figure whose only role was to placate the restless and unhappy people. Only the City Guard viewed differently. With the right support, perhaps things could have been different. But Kirkwall’s noble houses operated under their own sense of realism and greed. They would support the person that benefitted them the most. For some time now, it was the Knight-Commander and the Templar Order.

Marian deeply regretted having Aveline and Varric explain the unequal balance of power – where there was nothing to hold those that abused it accountable. _Ignorance was bliss._

“I would expect the Champion of Kirkwall to do what was best for her home.” Meredith stated frostily. Dislike flashed in her eyes and Marian’s fingers itched towards her sword hilt. Anders shifted beside her but clear blue eyes had met Meredith’s cold ones and the two women stared, neither refusing to backdown.

“Ah yes, your majesty – I must present, the Champion of Kirkwall: Marian Hawke.” Bran’s voice cut through the tense silence. Scout whined with excitement at meeting new people, eager for a loving scratch behind the ears. With one final glance at the Knight-Commander, Marian turned her attention to the seneschal of Kirkwall and their esteemed guests.

_Fuck me sideways._

Standing in the polished argent armour embellished with the Therin charge, stood the man who had never identified himself past being an agent for the Ferelden king. Whiskey eyes met hers, the corners crinkling with recognition and greeting. Marian stared. King Alistair Therin _winked_. At her.

Marian could still feel his calloused hands dragging over her skin. His hard chest heaving with pleasurable exertion. The soft moans that he pulled from her with well-placed kisses.

_Its not regicide if I’d stabbed him when I didn’t know who he was._

News of the return of a Therin line to the Ferelden throne had rippled across the Waking Sea. Drawn portraits of his likeness had followed closely, but Marian had never seen one – nor had she particularly cared. Things changed in Kirkwall daily and Marian struggled just to keep up with those changes. 

Anders cleared his throat, nudging Marian out of thoughts. She threw a quick bow, followed by a simpering “How do you do, your majesty?” Anders elbowed her in the side. It was plain to all that he was amused, ignoring Marian’s blatant slight. The king turned to his companion, who stood in tailored Ferelden finery. 

“This is the ambassador for Ferelden, Arl Teagan Guerrin. He’s also my uncle, sort of.” Alistair introduced. Arl Teagan leaned conspiratorially towards the group. “I am his uncle, please call me Teagan.” Anders let out a light chuckle and Marian covered her snort of amusement by sipping a mouthful of wine.

Not forgetting her manners, Marian made to reintroduce Anders, but he beat her to the punch.

“I heard that you were a Grey Warden.” Anders commented with an innocent air, eyes glittering with mischief. The King’s pleasant smile morphed into a shit-eating grin. “That’s what the rumours say, where did you hear such a thing?” Alistair jested just as innocently. Anders waggled his brows in response. Marian looked first at the King and then Anders, bemused by the exchange.

“Funny things rumours, they’re like Grey Wardens, they get around.” Alistair added, his gaze drifting to Marian. She tapped her sword hilt pointedly, a smirk firmly in place. 

Meredith was unable to hold in her derision any further, letting it out with a loud scoff. “As you can see _your majesty_ , we do not allow apostates to run around unchecked in Kirkwall. The Champion is held accountable for any offensive actions.” Alistair inclined his head deferring to Meredith’s rank within the Templar Order.

“A solution that suits Kirkwall but not one that I am willing to introduce in Ferelden. My explanation earlier should suffice.” For the first time that Marian had seen, a stern seriousness took over the King of Ferelden. The dour expression that seemed to be permanently affixed on the Knight-Commander’s face turned into one of frustration and anger.

“If Ferelden takes this stance and declares their Circle of Magi open, every mage outside your kingdom will uprise. We should be taking steps to suppress rebellion – not encouraging it.” Meredith’s rebuttal was expected, the same point that she continuously pushed. Marian traded glances with Anders and they both simultaneously took a long gulp of wine. It was easier to drain their goblets than to comment.

Only a brave soul would dare to criticise a King. Even a king who was as laid back as Alistair Therin of Ferelden. Yet Meredith had done just that without batting an eyelid. The King of Ferelden stood his

ground: “I will not upset the fragile peace that the Ferelden Circle has found for the sake of three escaped apostates from Kirkwall.”

Arl Teagan was the one who shifted uncomfortably this time, likely fearing for future ramifications between Ferelden and Kirkwall. It was hard not to emphasise for the man who would be responsible for the continued good relations if there was profound disagreement.

Alistair wasn’t finished though. “Ferelden still hopes to forge an alliance with Kirkwall, Knight-Commander. I will not dictate my country to the Templar policy.” It was a reminder of the King of Ferelden’s upbringing within the Templar Order himself as well as an unspoken warning. Teagan shifted uncomfortably again. Marian snagged fresh glasses of wine and pressed one into the nervous ambassador’s hand.

Meredith wouldn’t back down. “We do not entertain ‘maybes’ your majesty. You will find that my answer will have to be ‘no’.” Meredith told him critically. “The King of Ferelden has a duty not only to the people he serves, but to the Maker as well. The people of Ferelden will not forget your failure when they choose their next King.” The chiming of bells signalling that the feast had begun was a welcome interruption. Meredith shook her head, before marching away in disgust. 

Despite the harsh words, Alistair chuckled at the Knight-Commander’s retreating steps. “Don’t you just enjoy being emasculated before dinner? Really dampens your appetite. Shall we?” 

Taking their seats, Marian found herself seated close to their esteemed guests due to her status as Champion and she watched as the dishes of choice were presented. Dressed crabs with buttered potatoes, baked fish steeped in herbs, thick bread to dip – both savoury and sweet – Kirkwall’s traditional cuisine. Ferelden dishes honouring their guests were also offered: roasted venison in blackberries, hearty lamb stew. Marian couldn’t keep up, gratefully drinking the rich and fruity wine which was poured freely into their glasses.

As the food was served, conversation struck up around Marian. Anders had immediately struck up a lively, if intense conversation with his neighbours. Marian was greeted by Ser Marlein Selbrech, who was very vocally opposed to Meredith’s installation as steward. The lesser gentlewoman was also a firm supporter of the Champion of Kirkwall. The two women exchanged quick words, where Selbrech implied that she had come across information that would undermine Meredith’s power.

After arranging a more appropriate location to continue their little chat, Selbrech excused herself, leaving Marian on her own, which was more than fine. Marian was content to drink her wine and sneak morsel of meat to Scout, who had situated herself underneath the table, heavy head resting on Marian’s knee.

Selbrech’s empty seat was filled when King Alistair sidled in. “I had hoped to speak with you further Champion. Brief conversation before dinner isn’t enough.”

Marian glanced at the king from out of the corner of her eye. Reaching for the wine, she topped up both their glasses. Then she picked up her unused knife, twirling it easily between her fingers. “I would like to suggest that next time you send an agent to gather information, you should try to _blend in._ ” Her light-hearted comment garnered a low laugh from the king.

“I was told that you have a certain welcoming charm.” Marian snorted into her wine at Alistair’s comment. This wasn’t the place to talk about their prior meeting, who knew what Meredith’s eyes and ears were reporting. It was in both of their interests to change the subject. 

The King leaned as close as propriety would allow. But they would not be overheard. “Ferelden could use someone like you. You will always be welcomed back, if you still call Ferelden your home.” Again, Marian got the impression that the conversation had changed to be specific to her.

Swallowing her bite of bread thickly, Marian finally turned to face the King of Ferelden. Clear blue eyes met those familiar tawny brown eyes. King or no, he was an easy man to talk too. In another life, where duties and politics didn’t exist, Marian could have easily pictured them as becoming firm friends. This wasn’t another life and the King of Ferelden was not simply friends with a common-born Ferelden refugee who had the title of Champion sprung upon her.

There was no reason for her to continue sitting amongst this nightmare of pomp and opulence. A glance down the table confirmed her thought, as Anders too looked ready to leave.

“Ferelden is my home, but Kirkwall is my prison.” Marian finally told the King. King Alistair Therin frowned at her candour. Standing, she held her hand out and he accepted it with a firm shake of hand. To satisfy the eyes that were on her, Marian bowed before moving to collect Anders with Scout close on her heels. Unbeknownst to Marian, tawny brown eyes followed her.

King Alistair Therin’s sudden arrival and departure spread quickly through Kirkwall. Accompanying the news was the gossip of the Knight-Commander’s fury at Hawke, for cheating the city of a much-needed alliance with Ferelden. The gossip came with added scrutiny, calling for a Viscount to be elected, for Ferelden’s departure had highlighted that the Templar Order could not adequately govern a merchant city-state. Meredith tightened her hold around the city, pursuing apostates without abandon as Meredith’s preaching turned to fanatical ranting, escalating the tensions between mages and templars. Whatever good Ferelden could have achieved for the troubled city had been lost. 


	2. Part I: Chapter One: Sitzfleisch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter. 
> 
> On the subject of updates: I currently am eight chapters ahead. Updates will be relatively frequent until I catch up. From there, I hope to update once a week.

**Sitzfleisch:** _"The ability to endure or carry on an activity."_

_  
Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon_

Kirkwall had been torn asunder, the city and its people frozen in a state of shock and sorrow. In the months following the destruction of the Chantry, the shockwaves of horror still continued to reverberate through Kirkwall. Knight-Commander Meredith’s tyrannical rule had been set to finish on what the Qunari had started all those years ago. But it was no purge of the supposed unworthy, it was a total war on mages fuelled by mania and paranoia. From Kirkwall’s underbelly to the Gallows itself, no one mage was spared judgement at templar hands. Nor, were the people who sought to spare them from the fault of birth at Meredith’s hands. Desperation gripped them all and the people had cried out for someone to deliver them from Meredith’s crushing stranglehold.

The Champion of Kirkwall had been their desperate answer. The City-Guard had been the first to declare their allegiance to the Champion, destabilising the secular power that had been placed in templar hands. From there, support for the Champion of Kirkwall had filtered upwards from the underground. Meredith, driven only by her own paranoia, had responded with a city-wide curfew, enforced down to the minute. It was then that the noble houses of Kirkwall saw that only the Champion possessed the backbone to truly challenge the Knight-Commander.

No one noticed the growing dark rings of tiredness around the Champion’s eyes or her thinning waist as Hawke was drawn more and more into the on-going feud between the First Enchanter of the Circle and the Knight-Commander. Only her friends noticed how the Champion drew into herself, displaying only an acerbic sense of humour as she was pulled at whim between the two warring figureheads. No one felt the heavy, damning silence in the Champion’s home or saw the lines of lyrium dust that the Champion used to escape into oblivion.

Kirkwall called for the Champion to act and those who held sway shouted at her to pick a side in a conflict that supported one extreme or the other.

Maybe Hawke would have given Meredith a chance and listened to her reasoning if her dear friend, the Dalish-elf Merrill hadn’t been kidnapped. The former Keeper’s First was a formidable mage, who lived a happy existence in the Alienage under the Champion’s protection. Knight-Commander Meredith knew this, knew that Merrill was innocent and didn’t dare harm a soul. Yet the Knight-Commander had stood idly by and Hawke’s anger had been unleashed. Now, the Champion of Kirkwall had become a threat to Meredith’s seat of power. There were some templars who questioned Meredith’s ways and together with the Champion, they appealed to the Chantry to intervene, but to no avail. 

It was Anders who had removed the illusion that a solution could be found in a simple act that betrayed the Champion’s friendship. The Kirkwall Chantry had exploded at his will, fuelled by manipulation and hate, causing the deaths of hundreds.

And with that destruction came the first vile tangs of red-lyrium that stained the air as it permeated the Gallows and the true extent of Meredith’s insanity was revealed. It was the stuff of nightmares. Hawke would never be able to scour the scene of the Knight-Commander crumbling to dust as she absorbed too much tainted power. She wouldn’t ever forget the path of unfixable devastation that had been left behind. It was truly the stuff of nightmares. But still, what was left of Kirkwall believed that their Champion could rise above the ashes and restore what had been taken from them.

The Kirkwall Templars had bowed before her and swore their allegiance to her. An unnatural wind blew the dust of their former commander around them in the decimated Gallows courtyard, lending to the surrealness of the moment. Marian Hawke’s tried and anxious eyes had darted frantically at the sight of bowing templars. It was no longer a nightmare, but a terrifying reality.

The Champion of Kirkwall was now the Viscountess of Kirkwall.

Kirkwall struggled to press on as around them, the Circles revolted, spurred on by Anders’ actions. Marian Hawke was confined to a desk, confined by bureaucratic duty as she scrambled to learn the politics and ways of an office that had been left empty for four years. And as she scrambled to find and restore order, words uttered to her in another lifetime echoed in her ears, haunting her every waking moment: _it’s only if we fall, that we learn if we can fly._

Marian Hawke had done this before, rebuilt a life from nothing. Now, a city depended on this ability to rebuild – to find coin where there was none to boost the economy and spearhead rebuilding projects. To source food and water for the displaced citizens who had lost their homes first to the Qunari invasion and then again, to the Kirkwall Rebellion. Too were they lacking in manpower, the City Guard was stretched to their limit and so was their Guard-Captain.

Marian had quickly learnt not to count on those who could truly make a difference: the Kirkwall nobility who had petulantly stomped their feet and demanded that the Champion deliver them from Meredith’s clutches had pulled away as Kirkwall suffered, retreating to their holiday estates far enough away that they could forget the horror of what everyone had faced. And whilst some of the lesser nobles had stayed, able to provide the new Viscountess with some relief and assistance, those who held true clout had disappeared.

In the Viscount’s office, Marian struggled through the remaining pages of the latest report on the city-state’s finances. Like other country born children, Marian had received a Chantry education. She could read and count her numbers well enough but managing a city’s finances was not in the lessons that the Chantry taught the children of farmers and craftsmen. In matters of the Hawke Estate, her mother had managed and then, Varric had taken over. It had always been Marian’s job to bring in the coin and one she did well.

Seneschal Bran Cavin, to his credit was an efficient administrator who went to the additional trouble of somewhat simplifying financial reports for Marian’s benefit. On one hand, the seneschal’s imperious attitude hadn’t improved as more and more of Kirkwall’s problems were thrust onto Marian’s shoulders. Indeed, without Kirkwall chanting her name, Marian was certain that ran would have protested her appointment as Viscountess. It was thanks to Isabela that Marian had the ammunition to silence Bran’s derision and scathing comments. Isabela had spotted the seneschal at the Blooming Rose on more than several occasions. After Dumar’s death and Marian’s increasing involvement in state matters, the pirate had made the connection known. Bran had never warmed to Marian Hawke, but even still, Marian had entertained the notion that his judgement of her would change over time. Like a lot of things, Marian found she was wrong. 

Lacking as she was in areas of policy and governing a Free Marcher city-state, Marian was able to read between the lines through her own experiences. Kirkwall is – was a major seaport of the Free Marches. A merchant city to the core, Kirkwall relied heavily on the importing and exporting of goods. Since the Qunari invasion, business had been on an increasing decline. After Anders and the Knight-Commander, the economy of Kirkwall was left in tatters. Without intervention, the city would become bankrupt and the people would starve…if a neighbouring city didn’t invade and conquer first. Varric had alluded to such things in their frank conversations in the Keep as the sun turned the sky blood red at the beginning of night. But these were not problems that Marian could easily solve with a stab of a dagger. She would have to navigate them as a Viscountess would and not a warrior.

Marian ran frustrated fingers through unruly hair and closed the file that she had been reading, pushing it aside. With a frustrated sigh, Marian leaned down to open a drawer and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the full drawer. Alone and not having to worry about drinking polite fingers from a crystalline glass, Marian pulled the cork and guzzled the alcohol like it were water. The burn of alcohol was refreshing on the back of her throat and the sting made her eyes water.

“Thirsty, Hawke?” Aveline’s disapproving voice interrupted Marian’s determination to drain the bottle. Not missing a beat, Marian lowered the bottle onto the desktop and pulled two glasses out of the same drawer where she had found the whiskey. She poured drinks for herself and the Guard-Captain. Tipping the bottle into her empty glass, the slosh of liquid brought Marian back to her senses.

“I’m always thirsty Guard-Captain.” Marian commented innocently. It was always easier to not hide certain details from Aveline Vallen. Specifically, details such as the amount of whiskey Marian Hawke ingested daily was such a detail.

Gesturing to the stack of reports piled on her desk with her glass, Marian explained. “Kirkwall’s economy is collapsing.” There was no use beating about the bush. “We need coin. We need more manpower to protect the city. One well placed assault by a neighbour or a rebellion and Kirkwall is _done_.” Marian’s words weren’t exactly reassuring and were tinged with the bitterness of the being trust into such a position. 

Aveline leaned forward and accepted the waiting glass that Marian had poured. “Well, shit.”

Marian saluted the Guard-Captain with her glass and took a deep sip.

“There’s a solution Hawke, we just have to find it.” It wasn’t an exact reassurance, but a reminder that they were a team. Marian Hawke was a warrior – not a leader of city-state. It was clear that she lacked knowledge in policy and the finer details of state-management. But if it came to a fight, Marian Hawke would be able to rally the people to the end. Marian Hawke was Kirkwall’s greener pasture, despite these forthcomings.

“In a few days, I am meant to stand before Kirkwall’s noble families and announce how I am going to rebuild this city from the ground up. There’s nothing.” Marian raked her hands through her short hair in frustration. Aveline shook her head and took a sip of her drink.

“We start with keeping Kirkwall safe.” Marian agreed with Aveline on that point. Keeping Kirkwall safe from invasion was a priority. Rebellion was rift in the air, word was trickling into the city that mages were standing up to their oppressors. No one would come to Kirkwall’s aid, though it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. Marian knew this, but she still had reached out asking for whatever help that could be given. 

Anders would never see the turmoil that he had unleashed, Marian had made sure of that. As the death toll climbed higher and higher, the Champion of Kirkwall’s name was synonymous in the push for freedom by the mages. It was for this reason that no one would come to Kirkwall’s aid despite Marian’s pleas. Unknowing complicity meant that these deaths were on Marian’s shoulders. But to dwell on this fact would accelerate her spiral into despair. For the moment now, Marian was on her own – Kirkwall was on her own. 

“The Circles around us are rebelling. Kirkwall has few friends, if at all. Anders saw to that.” A damning silence fell between the two women at Marian’s words. Aveline uncharacteristically finished her glass and slid it across the desk. “Better top us up then, Hawke.” 

Pouring another round for both herself and Aveline, Marian decided to change the subject. “How is Donnic?” The guardsman had taken over most of the administrative work, allowing the Guard-Captain to work closer with the struggling relief efforts. 

Aveline’s hard expression softened at the mention of her husband. “Tired, overworked. Just like the rest of us Hawke. We will rest when the work is done.” Marian wasn’t so sure about that. Some days were harder than others. The work to rebuild Kirkwall was endless and exhaustive. if Marian allowed it, she was certain it could very well kill everyone involved. Whilst Marian would welcome the sweet relief of death, she wouldn’t allow it for Aveline or Donnic.

“You can’t keep Kirkwall safe if you’re tripping over your feet.” Chastising Aveline was always an activity that Hawke enjoyed, a rare opportunity where their situations were reversed. Aveline’s frown returned.

“Hawke-” Aveline began and Marian interrupted. “Find a suitable second, rotate the roster. Make sure _everyone_ has one day off a week. We need to stay on top. When things go to shit, it’ll be worth the trouble.” Aveline tried to object once again. Marian interjected again: “This isn’t friendly advice Guard-Captain; this is an _order_.” Aveline eyed her friend sceptically, likely about to turn Marian’s words on herself.

A knock on the door interrupted Aveline before she could argue the point further.

“Viscountess, Guard-Captain.” The messenger greeted with a respectful half-bow before crossing the room to hand Marian a letter. The envelope was sealed with a familiar heraldry that Marian had seen somewhere before. Waiting until the messenger had left them to their privacy before slitting open the envelope with a small dagger that she kept in her boot, Marian immediately recognised the cursive handwriting.

“It’s from Sebastian.” 

The last time Marian Hawke had seen Sebastian Vael, stone from the destroyed Chantry still burned around them. Hawke had stared at the rubble, dumbfounded as Anders babbled his justifications, just barely comprehending her role in such senseless murder. The Chantry brother’s grief had manifested in rage. As the Champion struggled to placate an irate Knight-Commander, Sebastian had paced. And then that grief had been unleashed on Marian with furious accusations; that the Champion of Kirkwall aided and abetted a murderer. Gone was a man who had been able to tame the turmoil that Marian lived with. In the devastation, Sebastian promised to reign vengeance on Kirkwall, to raze the city to the ground if Marian _didn’t do something_.

And Marian didn’t blame Sebastian for his words and she grieved on that day for the loss of their close relationship that had been shattered by what had transpired. Nor could she blame him for forgetting the lesson of thinking before acting, one that Sebastian himself had admonished her on many a times. Maintaining any sort of integrity in the wake of the Chantry’s destruction was near on impossible. They all acted on instinct alone.

Marian hadn’t been able to explain, hadn’t been able to detail Anders’ careful omissive duplicity that had involved her. The Knight-Commander was calling for the blood of every mage in Tranquil, hell bent on obliterating them all for the actions of one. Sebastian had left Kirkwall without so much of a goodbye and Marian hadn’t heard from him since.

Warily, Marian unfolded the letter. Sebastian was a man who valued words. Each single word that he spoke was considered carefully. This was the same with his written correspondence. On the paper, a single sentence leapt out and that was all that was needed: 

_The alliance between the Viscountess of Kirkwall and the Prince of Starkhaven will be the strongest that the Free Marches has ever seen._

The message was plain – a call to arms even. Sebastian Vael would embrace his birthright and reclaim Starkhaven and in doing so would have Marian Hawke as his ally. The proverbial olive branch that Sebastian offered was one with powerful ramifications. Gaining the support of the Prince of Starkhaven would be the easiest item to tick off the long list of tasks that Marian needed to achieve.

Aveline leaned forward, “What does it say?” she asked, curious.

Marian handed the letter to Aveline. “An alliance between Starkhaven and Kirkwall.”

The Guard-Captain glanced at Sebastian’s letter with a slight frown. “He finally did what was right.” Aveline handed the letter back to Marian, who accepted it.

“Not everyone will be supportive of allying with an untested ruler who has been in the Chantry for most of his life.” Aveline pointed out with that same frown. It wasn’t difficult to figure out just who the Guard-Captain was referring to when she said ‘everyone’.

“Even so, it’ll boost morale. This is news that the people will be glad to hear. We’re wading chest deep through shit Aveline, this is a good thing.” Aveline nodded in agreement, but still pressed her point: “And what if it’s a ploy? Kirkwall is weak. We can only vouch for Sebastian, not the rest of Starkhaven. Tread carefully Hawke.”

Marian agreed with the Guard-Captain. It was important to consider every angle. They didn’t know what had changed since Sebastian had left Kirkwall. “Kirkwall should respond to Starkhaven at least.” Marian compromised.

“I agree.” Marian dropped the letter and splashed more whiskey into their empty glasses.

“As they say – when there’s no doors or windows to pass through, make one.” Aveline snorted as the two women clinked glasses.

* * * * * * * * * *

“What you mean to say, Viscountess, is that in order to boost Kirkwall’s economy, you will increase taxes for _all_ Hightown residents?” Marian narrowed her eyes at Romain Carrac’s question as a chorus of ‘here, here’s’ accompanied the question. The overdressed and overstuffed noble had disliked Marian from the get-go. House Carrac were a problematic lot, with constant feuding occurring in the past between the Carrac and families. As a Hawke with direct ties to the restored Amell family, it was little surprise that the Carrac patriarch liked to flaunt his influential superiority whenever they shared the same room.

Unimpressed, Marian flickered her attention to the self-important git. “I didn’t stutter.” She answered coolly. The murmurs continued, filtering from behind where Carrac sat. His position in conjunction to where the Viscountess sat was relevant to Kirkwall’s political environment, but Marian had found she didn’t care where everyone sat. True, Kirkwall’s nobility formed an essential part of governmental procedure, but the lofty title of Viscount afforded it’s bearer a certain autonomy. That autonomy was what Marian now employed in a desperate attempt to boost Kirkwall’s economy.

After a careful examination of Kirkwall’s taxation records, Varric had found that the Hightown residents paid little taxes compared to other citizens. This discovery was nothing new for Marian and Varric, who saw and experienced the change in preferential treatment between Kirkwall’s poorer residents; compared to those in Hightown who also possessed coin and influence. Dumar to his credit, had tried to change the way of things, but had been unsuccessful. It made sense to Marian to have the Hightown residents make a higher contribution.

Varric had also warned Marian that the Hightown residences would resist the change. They would not embrace the change with open arms and praise for Marian’s smart-thinking. The room still echoed with murmurs of discontent, but it seemed like Carrac was speaking for most – if not all of Kirkwall’s nobility. 

Marian fixed Romain Carrac with a derisive glare. “When was the last time you went down to the docks, sir?” The pointed question wasn’t lost amongst the murmurs of discontent. Marian had few allies amongst the nobility and though there were a few nods, accepting her decision, she could still see the frowns of disapproval. Her question was more hypothetical, for everyone present knew that few of their number ventured from Hightown unless business demanded it. Even then, representatives went in their stead where possible.

Marian continued, taking the opportunity to hone her point home. “One of the busiest places in Kirkwall is the docks. Every ship and every merchant pass through there. Right now, there are few ships in the harbour. Kirkwall’s economy is falling apart, you should be concerned. Take a tour around Lowtown; there are people starving and sleeping in the streets. We have a responsibility to those people.”

People shifted in the room and Marian concluded: “By raising taxes, the gold will fund resources for the City Guard, bolster relief efforts and feed everyone.” The disgruntled murmuring was growing in volume, but Marian wasn’t finished. “If I can afford to pay this tax, then you can afford it. Don’t like it? Leave. But let’s be clear, I will employ the City-Guard to help in enforcing this.”

The volume within the council chamber rose suddenly with the sudden uproar. Marian simply sat in her seat, resting her chin on her hand. She had held her tongue on pointing out that it was largely from Varric’s pockets as well as her own that any of Kirkwall’s restoration projects were progressing simply because they were privately funded projects. With a council chamber of nobles yelling their objections at her, Marian was growing tired of waiting them to exhaust themselves.

Finally, with lungs accustomed to shouting on a battlefield, Marian shouted over the cacophony. “You all _elected_ me to fix this mess, how dare you criticise me when I am trying to find solutions where there are none. Here is a solution, it is temporary, but necessary if we are going to stay afloat.”

Noises of objection started anew and to Marian, it seemed as if she were trying to draw water from stone. She would get nowhere with these nobles. The few people that Marian could count on did not have the sway to have others listen. Those allies were the ones who sought to do good, who brought in much needed supplies such as food and medicine. But it wasn’t enough. If Kirkwall’s nobility could band together, they would be able to solve Kirkwall’s problems. But like the rest of the city, those tasked with governing the city were fractured within. There was no faith for the Viscountess that had been elected out of desperation. Whatever she did wouldn’t be good enough. She had lost enough sleep as it was.

So Marian made herself comfortable, with her legs crossed under her, chin in hand and waited for Kirkwall’s nobility to shout themselves into silence. Wistfully, she wished that the water glass in front of her was filled with a liquid that contained a high alcohol content. As much dissent as there was, Marian knew that they would reluctantly have to accept such changes. Bran had confirmed Varric’s calculations, without some sort of income for the city, Kirkwall would be forced to advocate to neighbouring cities and countries for coin, which would weaken them further. Marian also refused to put the struggling city-state into debt. 

Marian also had one more announcement to make. After the reception to raising taxes, it was unlikely that anyone would listen to her, judging by the unrelenting angry shouting. A glance out of the large windows in the chamber showed the day was wasting away. Marian had better things to do then listen to a group of nobles acting like petulant children because implemented changes would impact their luxurious way of living.

So Marian simply shouted over them all.

“The Prince of Starkhaven has approached Kirkwall to form an alliance.” Her voice rang out over the noise of objection easily and the furious shouts sputtered to a halt. Now that she had everyone’s attention yet again, Marian waved the letter from Sebastian that Marian had received that morning.

“This is a promise from Starkhaven that they will aid Kirkwall. Starkhaven wishes to build a close rapport with Kirkwall that will last for time to come.” The room now was filled with a sense of astonishment, as if none had been overly confident of Marian’s abilities at all.

 _Of course they wouldn’t expect something as monumental like an alliance with another city, let alone Starkhaven._ It was a smug realization to have. 

Hawke couldn’t bask in her little victory for long. “You would ally Kirkwall with an upstart Vael who is bitter for not being given Starkhaven to rule?” A representative for the Harimann family spoke up with a smirk firmly in place. 

The play for the Starkhaven throne was a brutal and gruesome story that one should only read about in books. Atonement had fuelled Sebastian’s vengeance in avenging the deaths of his parents. Whilst Sebastian had struggled with his faith in the Maker and his duty, Hawke had found the truth of the matter.

It was the Harimann family that truly controlled Starkhaven; the cogs controlled by a demon’s power. Unlike Kirkwall, Starkhaven stood on the cusp of a civil war of succession as Sebastian’s cousin maintained an illegitimate, tenuous hold on the Starkhaven throne. Hawke had promised to be with Sebastian when he reclaimed his birthright, but his sudden departure from Kirkwall and her appointment to Viscountess had made that promise impossible to uphold. She always followed through on her word and yet, it was Sebastian who was making it possible for her to fulfil it without physically being present in Starkhaven.

Marian studied the Harimann noble, committing their face to memory. “An interesting question, considering the Harimann family supports Sebastian Vael’s claim to the Starkhaven throne.” The smug expression quickly filtered away at the Viscountess’s rebuttal.

The story of what Sebastian had found in Starkhaven was not a pleasant one and it was only due to the Harimann’s assistance that he had been able to drum up considerable support. “Kirkwall was home to the exiled Prince and he would aid Kirkwall in the memory of Grand Cleric Elthina.” At mention of the deceased Grand Cleric, the room sobered, with many uttering prayers of their own to Andraste.

“Discussions are only preliminary at the moment, but we both believe that a strong alliance between the two cities will be established.” This reassurance seemed to be the one that placated the room, despite the rumble of dissent that still pulsed in the council room. The promise of allying with Starkhaven naturally appealed to most. It was much more than Meredith had achieved in foreign relations. Knight-Commander Meredith had done the exact opposite, successfully alienating Kirkwall had become alienated to the rest of the world. 

With the agenda finally exhausted, the council was adjourned. Marian waited until the room was empty before letting out a breath that she didn’t know she had been holding. Kirkwall’s nobility was unhappy and their displeasure had been many painfully apparent. Marian didn’t care. She had been pushed into a position that she didn’t want and now, instead of supporting her, they tried to block any progress that could be made. But that wouldn’t stop her, Marian would do what was best for the city and she wouldn’t let anyone stand in her way of achieving that. 

* * * * * * * * * *

_Denerim, 9:37 Dragon_

“Focusing on Ferelden’s recovery since the blight is important – I agree Alistair, but to rebuild and ensure Ferelden is the strongest She can be means also assuring the Therin line. You have no queen and no heir. A queen shows you are dedicated to Ferelden’s continued survival.” Teagan’s argument was sound, but not one that Alistair wanted to hear.

“You know what we are arguing is true, Alistair.” Eamon urged. On this issue, the Guerrin brothers would not waver and Alistair had given up trying to sway one or the other some time ago.

The Blight had ended seven years ago. Seven years of stepping into the role of King. Seven years of finding uncorrupted soil and clean drinking water. Seven years of working to eliminate the brigands and bandits that terrorised the ravaged countryside and ransacked the people of coin and resources that they didn’t have. Seven years and the topic of succession was the same song and dance that they circling came back too.

Out of respect for his sort-of uncles, Alistair would remain calm. “I still fail to see how choosing a queen will further help Ferelden’s recovery.” It was a sore point of conversation and one that both regent and advisor had brought up infrequently over the years. Now it was an earnestly reoccurring conversation and Alistair’s patience was tried further and further each time the conversation dared to enter the room. 

“You have danced around this issue for long enough. You very well know what a queen will do for Ferelden and its not just to ensure the Therin line survives.” Teagan told his nephew impatiently. 

Alistair snorted. “The people seem to have no issue with not having a queen. Some are still recovering their lives and trying to survive. Not concentrating on what the King does in his spare time.” Eamon shook his head at Alistair’s comment, interrupting before Teagan could respond. “The announcement is not only to boost morale, but to also placate the Bannorn, who’s support is vital.”

As much as he wished, Alistair couldn’t refute that claim. Time and again, not only his advisors but the banns that the King served had pointed out to Alistair that a king’s one duty to his country was to ensure that there was an heir in the event premature death claimed him. That meant marrying a suitable woman of noble birth and influence and promptly having a child. Despite having the support of the Bannorn, Alistair was tiring of the banns influencing the Crown. Especially in this matter. 

Irritation showing now, Alistair pressed for an answer. “And just who is pushing this agenda? Are the banns forgetting that there are more important things, like eating? What about restoring blighted soil so we can yield crops in the south?” Looking at one uncle and then other expectedly, Alistair waited for an answer.

Eamon was the one who finally offered one. “I am pushing the agenda this time Alistair. This isn’t for Ferelden but to confirm your right to kingship.” 

The whole matter was preposterous. “You would think that having Therin blood _isn’t_ a legitimate claim.” Sarcasm was dripping heavily from every word. Eamon was clearly unimpressed, whilst Teagan didn’t bother to try to hide his amusement. 

“Now that Ferelden is not in as dire a situation as she once was, those who still question your…” Teagan paused, reconsidering what he was trying to say. Alistair raised a brow. “…Your?” he queried. 

Eamon picked up where Teagan had trailed off: “The majority of the Bannorn supported a Therin king on Ferelden’s throne, but those who supported Loghain still have voices. By marrying and producing an heir, you are affirming that it is the Maker’s will. You are affirming His mandate that you are Ferelden’s rightful king.” It was blunt, but to the point. An opinion that Alistair could at the very least respect, even if he disagreed.

Grudgingly, Alistair had to concede that there at least, Teagan and Eamon’s argument was sound. Alistair’s own beliefs were irrelevant here. Finding a suitable bride and producing an heir would show even Alistair’s harshest of critics that Therin rule was Maker ordained and should be granted unconditional support. 

Pushing himself away from his desk, Alistair began to pace around the spacious office that accommodated the King and his two closest advisors. With the annual Landsmeet being held the next day, the usually tidy office was cluttered with a year’s worth of reports. Everything from the recorded harvests through to costs for the Ferelden army was currently stored in the King’s office. As much as Alistair didn’t enjoy this conversation, there was more important things that needed to be recorded and discussed. Lines of succession and who would fill the empty throne of the Queen was not an essential item on the agenda. 

“And who would you suggest would be a suitable bride to placate the Bannorn?” Alistair questioned dryly and was delighted with Eamon’s double take at the unexpected question.

“There’s no one that you would select?” Teagan asked, there was a knowing gleam in his eye as if he knew something that Alistair didn’t.

“If the suggestion is to marry Anora, I would prefer to face another arch-demon.” Alistair snarked. Teagan crooked a smile at the quip.

“Despite a fall from grace, Anora is still beloved by the people and was a strong administrator.” Teagan commented, his good humour had disappeared as quickly as it had come. 

“Beloved or not, allowing Anora’s sticky fingers and self-serving plans near the throne is not a wise idea Teagan.” Alistair shot back. Even with her family name’s fall from grace, Anora still remained a persistent itch in Alistair’s side that wouldn’t go away. 

During the early days of Alistair’s rule, there had been a not-so-subtle push from the Bannorn to have Anora reinstated as queen. Despite her skill at administrating the kingdom, Alistair had stood before the banns of Ferelden and maintained that he would rule alone. For Alistair, he had only ever seen one that would be his queen. But it was not possible, or desired and his heart still ached for what could have been. It was for this reason that he ruled alone and a matter that he had never spoken of to anyone other than his uncle. Now it seemed that Alistair could no longer hide behind the easy-going rapport that he held with the Ferelden people. The banns of Ferelden demanded a queen and then, an heir. To continue to rule without their support was to embark down a slippery slope. One that Teagan was trying very hard to avoid. 

“Be derisive of Anora as much as you like, Anora _was_ a queen of Ferelden _._ Your rule is tenuous and Ferelden’s future is not cemented until an heir is named. Choosing a Ferelden queen would be wise; however we can also consider potential brides from other countries.” Eamon’s matter-of-fact tone seemed to suggest that he wasn’t talking about marriage at all but commenting on more mundane topics such as the weather. 

“So we announce my intent to choose a queen at the Landsmeet. It’ll shut the naysayers up and then what?” Alistair quizzed. Teagan gave a non-committal shrug, “it’ll send everyone into a flurry.” Eamon nodded in agreement with his brother.

Letting out an exasperated noise, Alistair was determined to push on. There were other pertinent items on the agenda for the Landsmeet that still needed to be discussed; for Alistair to determine the Crown’s official stance or response. Clearing his throat, the King gestured to the next issue, efficiently putting the current conversation to rest for the moment at least. Eamon fixed his nephew with a stern look. The regent had hoped to have had something more solid to present to the Bannorn than an announcement that the King of Ferelden intended to wed, but he left the subject drop for now. At least this time, a call to action was being made.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was startingly easy to undermine a young King’s power and influence.

What had started out as an idea to satisfy petty vengeance had given way to a loosely fleshed out plan. Like loose threads, she had spun doubt and uncertainty for the unknown and untested bastard who sat on the Ferelden throne. It was simply her bad luck that that bastard had Calenhad’s blood in his veins.

Soft whispers of the King’s incompetency rooted themselves within the people who mattered, after all the King of Ferelden served not just the people, but the Bannorn as well. Rumours spread that festered doubt. These types of rumours, if cultivated in the right way would grow in strength and number until it crippled the administration. No, it wasn’t what she wanted for Ferelden, but she desired such gossip to cripple the Crown so that she could regain what was stolen from her. 

Anora Therin neé Mac Tir leaned back in the plush armchair with a cup of tea in hand. She admired the delicate porcelain decorated with hand painted flora before her attention returned to the letter that rested on the table in front of her. The familiar, cursive script confirmed that her unwitting plan was coming to fruition. The annual Landsmeet had come and gone, the Bannorn gathering in Denerim for a week of parties, politics and posturing. The letter reported in detail the happenings within Ferelden over the past year and whilst everything was of interest to Anora, there was one announcement by the Crown that confirmed her success:

 _King Alistair Therin was seeking a Queen._

Despite everything, Anora lived a comfortable existence in the estates that had once bore the proud name of _Mac Tir_. That Anora had to thank the royal bastard for her comfortable way of life would always leave a bitter taste in her mouth. Anora had stood at that fateful Landsmeet as Ferelden was torn between Blight and civil war, her shoulders set proudly as first her father and then her way of life were stripped from her fuelled by misinformation and mob-tactics and the floundering kingdom was given to this sham of a Grey Warden, all because of the blood in his veins. 

And when Anora had been escorted from the royal palace and interned in Fort Drakon, no longer a proud Queen of Ferelden, Anora had promised herself that she would find a way back to the throne. Her father, Loghain, the great _Hero of River Dane_ had a vision for Ferelden. A kingdom that could and would stand on its own against Orlais and the Imperium.

It was that idea that had her persevere, that Ferelden would achieve such greatness. It wouldn’t be Alistair Therin that led the country to greatness, but Anora: Ferelden’s rightful Queen.

And persevere she had. Anora kept her head to the ground, reaching out to those that she could trust. With the King constantly absent from Denerim, restoring a kingdom plagued with anarchism; Anora listened, watched and waited. She found unexpected allies, who fuelled her whispers of doubt and uncertainty whilst she wasted her days confined to her quarters. Her allies became her eyes and eyes, reporting what they saw for Anora’s careful consideration: how best could she use that information?

King Alistair seeking a Queen was a reward for the days that had been wasted, having to be satisfied with whispering into the air as she painted the picture of an incompetent King. Until an engagement was announced, the court of the King would be the place to be seen and heard. Noble families would be presenting their daughters of marriageable age to the King. Under the table deals would be struck between families to enhance their own influence and prestige, to ensure that they came out on top. What was to come to past as Ferelden nobility squabbled over their queen-to-be would rival the most salacious of Orlesian intrigues. 

And Anora would make sure that she was at the thick of it all. She sipped at her tea, pondering on how she would return to the political stage as the alternative ruler, waiting and wanting for the light of consideration to be cast upon her once more. 

It was not an impossible situation to manipulate, but it would be difficult in finding the right person to work with. This person had to not only see that Anora’s vision was the correct one but would listen to her council. Ideally, it would be someone with considerable standing amongst Ferelden nobility. It wasn’t impossible criteria to fulfil, but it would most certainly be a challenge and Anora had always enjoyed a challenge. She would join court that evening and perhaps begin to piece together a way forward.

She would restore herself to the Ferelden throne once the question had been ‘when’. Now, it was a matter of ‘how’.


	3. Part I: Chapter Two: Vox Populi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.

**Vox Populi:** The opinions or beliefs of the majority. 

_Denerim, 9:37 Dragon_

When Alistair Therin had assumed Ferelden’s throne, the Landsmeet festivities were the prime opportunity to acquaint himself better with Ferelden’s Bannorn. It was necessary to learn the nuances of each fief, bannorn and arling. To know the whims of the banns and arls. The new King, unsure how to form such new relations had approached it in the only way he knew how: with jugs of ale and delicate, tasty cheeses. Then, the King had become the neutral voice in disputes, perfecting the delicate balancing act of ensuring that Ferelden was cared for. Some parts of Ferelden had suffered more than others by the Blight and resources had been stretched thin.

Almost ten years later, Alistair had near succeeded in building an amicable rapport with Ferelden’s nobility. The King knew which nobles to greet with mugs of ale and other with delicate glasses of wine. He could tell who had faith in his ability to lead Ferelden, compared those who remained sceptical and vocalised their doubts. Still, Alistair greeted them all the same – always making a point to listen to their needs and concerns. The world changed around them, healing after the Blight’s devastation. Alistair Therin’s ascension to the throne had ushered in a period of much needed rest for Ferelden.

This particular year, it was the King who changed the way of order of the Landsmeet. Business and politics were shouted about, as was the norm. But there was an additional piece of news that would be whispered about over glasses of wine in Denerim’s finer drinking establishments.

Eamon Guerrin, Regent of Ferelden had announced that King Alistair Therin sought a Queen had been received by the Landsmeet with thunderous roars of approval from the Bannorn. The sight of the cheering nobility was of the likes which Alistair had never heard or seen during his short reign. Much to his chagrin, word had spread quickly – though the King did suspect that his advisors had played a role in just how fast the proclamation had spread.

His ears still ringing from the raucous shouting, Alistair had retreated to his study, adjacent to his sleeping quarters after the Landsmeet, seeking a rare moment of solitude. He poured himself a generous portion of whiskey – he deserved the drink after witnessing that debacle after all. The King was no blushing virgin, nor a stranger to flirting. Alistair knew that every woman of marriageable age would have their eye on him. It would be foolish to not expect the Landsmeet feast that night to not be the busiest that it had ever been. It would be a night where every step, gesture and word was over-analysed. If the king showed favour to one lady over the other, every person at court would notice. Already, Alistair imagined scenario after scenario where he accidentally spurred a lady’s attentions or committed a courtship faux pas that undid months, or even years of good relations with her father and uncles.

It was also too easy to compare himself to his half-brother Cailan, who had played the role of the charming king to perfection. Next to King Cailan, King Alistair was not the picturesque, fairy tale example of what a King was; Alistair was the bumbling fool, incapable of wooing a lady with softy uttered sentences and smooth gestures.

Alistair took another grateful sip of his whiskey and decided that giving into Eamon’s pressuring was a fatalistic decision. Nothing good would come of this move, Alistair was sure of it.

And whilst the King would have much preferred to stay squirreled away in his office nursing his liquor and dwelling on the _what ifs_ and _could haves_ , duty called. It would be unprecedented if the King of Ferelden boycotted the Landsmeet feast, causing more harm than good. If one was intent on upsetting and offending the entire Ferelden Bannorn, missing the Landsmeet feast was a sure way to do it. Finishing his drink, Alistair gave into the inevitable and wandered into his bedroom. Awaiting him was steaming bath and attire more suitable to feasting.

Luckily for Alistair, he was able to sneak a second glass of whiskey whilst he dressed. The tunic with fine topstitching on the collar and cuffs complimented the decorative stitching on the mustard coloured doublet. Dark suede trousers and boots polished to a shine completed the outfit. Alistair was nursing his third whiskey when Eamon came knocking on his door. King and Regent made for the Great Hall together and Alistair reigned in his trepidation at the prospect of having to be introduced to dozens of ladies eager to curry favour. They would all see themselves as the one who would be elevated to Queen, the night was gearing up to be an interesting one.

Coming to a stop outside of the grand hall, where through the heavy wooden doors, an upbeat melody from the minstrels floated underneath the roil of chatter. Eamon turned to his nephew, clapping Alistair on the shoulder. “I know you don’t want this. But I hope that whoever is your bride that you can become friends.”

Eamon was always careful to maintain a level of professionalism when they were in a public setting. Speaking personally was something he would only do when Eamon could be assured, that the conversation was safe from wandering eyes and listening ears. That Eamon would utter such an expression of goodwill in an effort to reassure Alistair was uncharacteristic of the man who had lost his beloved wife and son to fate and circumstance.

Alistair gave a light shrug. “If she has your approval, that will be enough.” He responded, light-heartedly. Even with the joking manner that Alistair had adopted, Eamon could see the reassurance for what it was: Alistair would choose carefully.

Eamon clapped Alistair on his back as the doors swung open. The herald’s voice cried out over the merriment, announcing the King and Regent of Ferelden. Alistair shook out his shoulders, as if readying for a fight and not an evening of socialising and meeting potential brides. 

The hall had been transformed, no longer the stern site that hosted the Landsmeet and matters of Ferelden were decided. Now the hall was inviting and warm, a place of celebration. Tables had been set up to accommodate a feast, the silver table settings polished to a shine and gleaming in the candlelight. Banners bearing the devices of each teryn, arling and bannorn were strung around the hall.

Alistair barely noticed the splendour like he normally would have done, distracted by the immense turnout. The chatter of conversation had temporarily ceased, along with the music as all in attendance bowed to their king. As he passed his subjects, Alistair shook his head at the sudden sobriety that had overtaken the hall with his arrival. 

“Don’t stop on my account” he called out to the crowd good-naturedly.

It wasn’t until Alistair had taken his seat, a glass of sweet wine appearing in hand did the minstrels resume their tune. The rumble of conversation returned. Alistair let out the deep breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding in. 

The king’s arrival was the signal for the feast to begin. Servants served platters of different fruits and steaming dishes of hearty pottage accompanied with hard bread for dipping. Roasted game; venison, boar and pheasant, swimming in rich sauces. Tarts with buttery, crumbling crusts: sweet and savoury. Selections of sweet cakes and breads with accompanying spreads. Finally to finish, assorted cheeses that were both Ferelden and Orlesian in make – a notable addition to Ferelden feasts since Alistair’s coronation. 

From his position at head of the table, Alistair was able to see everyone in attendance as they sat down to enjoy the feast laid out before them. Skimming the room, Alistair noticed that there were more unfamiliar faces than familiar ones. Teagan and Eamon, in between bites of their meal gave a near exhausting commentary on who was related to whom. It was impressive, that they remembered such details when Alistair still could just differentiate the central Ferelden banns from those of southern Ferelden. 

The exercise was almost a game, until Alistair’s gaze settled on a familiar figure. With a frown, he placed his fork demurely on the table beside his plate and turned to Eamon. “What is Anora doing here?” Alistair asked, his voice deceptively calm.

The last time Alistair Therin had set eyes on his sister-in-law had been when the guard had been escorting her from the palace to Fort Drakon, marking the beginning of her conditional exile. Alistair hadn’t been able to muster the order for incarceration for the crimes of her father; Loghain Mac Tir. Still, he could not ignore the threat that Anora presented to Ferelden – to the Therin line – as it’s former queen. Nor would he coldly execute Anora because of what she had once been. They shared a family name and if that didn’t mean something, then what else did? 

Alistair had decided that Anora could live out the remainder of her life in the relative comfort of the Gwaren Estate in Denerim. Close enough to the Royal Palace that an eye could be kept on her, but far enough away that Alistair could forget about her continued existence, if he so wished too. Anora could roam and socialise, so long as she didn’t leave the walls of Denerim. This arrangement seemed to work for a time, until reports of her allies began to trickle in. It was to be expected of course, but still surprising, nonetheless. Strong, quiet words to certain nobles had put to rest any notion that Anora would restore herself to the throne. Alistair had been determined to not draw any attention to Anora’s schemes. It was what she wanted after all. Since then, nothing had stirred the waters – suggesting that Alistair’s discreet warning had been made perfectly clear. 

“Anora arrived with the other nobles, I did not think you would want a scene by ordering her removal.” Eamon murmured as he helped himself to the spiced rhubarb and apple tart. The Arl of Redcliffe was quite correct in his assumption. To have Anora removed from the hall would only inflame the gossips, better to let sleeping dogs lie as they said.

“Have someone keep an eye on her, she’s harmless – for the moment at least.” Alistair said to Eamon, voice pitched low. He took a long sip of the fruity sweet wine in his glass. Gossip swept quickly through Denerim; Alistair wouldn’t be surprised if Anora had showed up because of the announcement made at the Landsmeet.

With dessert being served, it was typical that attendees splintered away, moving about the tables and forming smaller, more intimate groups of conversation. The call for dancing was made before the beginning of each dance. Alistair always enjoyed watching the dances unfold in front of him, the steps made in unison in time to the drumbeat in choreographed patterns was a pretty sight to see. 

The Ferelden court had long accepted the fact that King Alistair never danced, a trait that he shared with his late father. Instead, Alistair would watch the dances and move from one conversation to another. Like every other feast, this was what unfolded. Perhaps with his announcement, many expected the monarch to break from tradition and ask eligible ladies to dance. Any who had considered that Alistair would deviate from this was disappointed, though it didn’t stop Alistair being inundated with invitations to dance by eager women. It was a sound tactic to gain the king’s attention. But with each invitation, there was a respectful decline. 

Practiced ease meant that Alistair flowed from one conversation to another. Polite laughs and ambiguous statements were forced from the King as his quest for Ferelden’s queen dominated the conversation. Fergus Cousland thankfully broke this pattern. The Teyrn of Highever bowed lowly to his King before the two men shook hands. Alistair and Fergus had bonded over shared experiences during the Blight. Their friendship had been further cemented through Fergus’ mentorship which had shaped Alistair into the pleasant, competent ruler that he had become. 

Fergus’ brows were raised, a teasing smirk in place. “You certainly caused a stir. Are you trying to distract us from something else?” He probed, seeking gossip that likely didn’t exist. 

Alistair sipped at his wine, watching the lively dance that was unfolding on the dancefloor. “What could I possibly distract from? Arguing with Orzammar over trade agreements? Telling certain banns that they will not receive additional grain?”

Fergus chuckled at Alistair’s comment. “How about Orlesian negotiations?” He suggested and Alistair scoffed.

A new dance began and the King and Teryn stood in companionable silence, watching as the tempo of the music grew faster. As the speed of the dance increased, the dance unfolded into a flurry of rushed steps as participants hurried to reach their places in time for the next beat. 

“I assure you that it is nothing more than desiring companionship.” The sarcasm was heavy and not lost to Fergus who snorted with amusement into his wine. The ending notes of the dance sounded and applause came from the energised, yet breathless participants. Alistair and Fergus joined in with loud claps of their own.

Fergus turned to Alistair as the applause died, expression suddenly sober.

“Oriana and I weren’t friends when we were married. We got along well enough though. We became friends when she discovered she was pregnant.” There was a pained pause. Fergus’ first child had been stillborn, a girl, who was the spitting image of her mother. “When Oren was born, Orianna became my wife. I didn’t have the luxury of choice, but I don’t regret it. It will take time but affection and companionship can grow.” 

Fergus had only spoken once of his family that Howe had brutally murdered but had never mentioned that his marriage was arranged. Occasionally the Teryn would reference his lost wife and son in conversation, but it was rare. It occurred to Alistair then, that Fergus Cousland was a trusted friend who would truly understand his reluctance to take just any lady as a bride. Alistair touched Fergus’ elbow briefly and the teryn gave him a confident nod. Before Alistair could thank his friend for the encouraging advice, a female voice called out to the Teryn of Highever, biding him to dance. 

A lady approached Fergus, her cheeks flushed with exertion and russet hair frizzing out of its elaborate up-do. Clearly, she had been one of the participants of the last, frenzied dance. Upon seeing Alistair, she dropped into a deep curtesy with a murmured; “your majesty.”

Inclining his head in greeting, Alistair noted the identical curve of their jaw and the slope of the nose. Like Fergus, identical hazel eyes were framed with the same crinkle at the corners whenever she smiled. This was Fergus’s beloved and highly spoken of younger sister Elissa. Their shared facial features were where their similarities ended. Fergus was a stocky man and his sister stood a fraction taller and slender in frame ‘she’s like our mother’ Fergus had once commented. 

Fergus took Elissa’s hand in his, squeezing it affectionately before letting go. “Sister, I wouldn’t dare embarrass our family name with horrendous dancing.” He said affectionately before turning back to Alistair. “Your majesty, may I present my sister Lady Elissa Cousland of Highever. Sister, King Alistair Therin.”

Alistair was treated with another deep curtesy before he could insist that such formalities really were just trivial to him. “I have heard much about you from your brother, I’m delighted to finally meet you.” He told her when she was standing upright once more. Her cheeks still red from dancing and her hair all over the place lent a fetching sight when she simply smiled at Alistair in response. Lady Elissa nudged her older brother. 

“I would advise you to disregard anything that my brother may have said about me. You are familiar with his tendency to over-exaggerate?” 

Fergus immediately turned to Alistair. “A warning, your majesty that it is not I, but my sister who exaggerates.”

Lady Elissa stepped around her brother, ignoring him to focus her attention on Alistair. “This feast has been quite an experience, your majesty. I thought the feasts in Highever were grand. They pale in comparison.”

Alistair nodded in agreement. “They really know how to throw a party here, don’ they?” He asked and Lady Cousland nodded eagerly. A server approached the trio, refilling Alistair’s glass and offering a fresh glass to Fergus, which the Teryn accepted.

“Elissa is quite skilled at organizing feasts, your majesty. I’m sure you remember that I mentioned that she manages Highever affairs, whenever Crown business takes me away from Highever?” Fergus said, taking a sip of his wine.

“It’s why I am in Denerim, my brother’s delay meant that he would not return to Ferelden for the Landsmeet. I would have represented Highever.” Lady Elissa further elaborated. 

“Of course. Wasn’t this delay in Antiva due to…what was it? _Business difficulties_?” Alistair asked Fergus pointedly, who threw his hands up in mock-outrage. Lady Elissa’s smile widened with mischief, her amber eyes glittering with mirth at Alistair’s underhand comment.

Through his marriage to Oriana, Fergus had bridged strong trade connections with Antiva. His travels had taken him to Antiva City to renew and strengthen these ties and to begin negotiations for relations that would benefit Ferelden and Antiva further in the future. An exciting prospect which also allowed Fergus to meet with Oriana’s family in a more appropriate setting. He hadn’t been able to truly grieve his wife’s sudden death. 

Elissa played along. “How interesting brother, perhaps you would explain yourself?” she asked sweetly. Fergus opened his mouth to defend himself before it snapped close, onto the little game that Alistair and Lady Elissa had begun.

“I would not utter any more, your majesty.” He beseeched and Alistair gestured to his friend with his wine glass. “Perhaps you should satisfy your sister with a dance before she damns you further?” Alistair suggested with a nod to Lady Elissa.

The two siblings linked arms now and Fergus bowed to Alistair. “A smart idea, from an even wiser King. If you would excuse us your majesty, I must placate my sister before she damages my reputation further.” 

Alistair watched the Teyrn of Cousland escort his sister to the dance floor, unaware that despite the merry making, many eyes had watched the King’s introduction to the younger Cousland unfold. The favourable exchange had shown that Lady Elissa was competition, strong competition. Whispers circulated through the great hall and King Alistair stood within the middle of it, oblivious to their words as he watched his friend dance with his beloved sister. 

  
* * * * * * * * * * 

_Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon._

Marian Hawke rubbed at her eyes, squinting in the sputtering light of the candle that sat on her desk. The Keep was eerily quiet, the silence broken periodically by the prowling guards that patrolled the interior and exterior. Despite their occasional intrusion, to ensure that she was still alive and breathing, the Viscountess of Kirkwall was left alone. 

Maker’s balls, she thankful for the solitude.

Her days had been pushed longer and longer as she was forced to entertain noble after noble, who protested her amendments in order to rebuild Kirkwall. It was almost like the Hightown population didn’t want to see the city restored. Their bleating filled her days, leaving her little time to see to what needed to be done. Most of the Viscountess’ nights were now spent in the Keep, doing the days work in the dark of the night, pushing through her own exhaustion with a tempestuous concoction of whiskey and lines of lyrium dust.

The lyrium sharpened her focus and numbed her mind. Once, she had used it to hone the emulated talent of dissipating magic around her, like a Templar but not. An unnecessary action had turned into a necessity to function. The lyrium numbed her battered mind and sharpened her focus, allowing her to act with brutal impartiality that likely created more enemies than allies. 

She _needed_ the lyrium dust to function.

The latest report detailing Kirkwall’s finances acted as a reassurance that Marian had made the right decision in raising Hightown’s taxes. Coin was reluctantly, but steadily trickling in, filling Kirkwall’s dwindling coffers. It was satisfying to see the figures, but they drastically dropped when the funds needed were withdrawn. Better that the coin was going directly back to the city rather than financing a private soiree.

Dealings with Starkhaven were still on-going. Whatever Sebastian was doing in Starkhaven, it had resulted in reports of some ships docking in Kirkwall. Accompanying these ships was an unsteady trickle of trade. Two steps forward, one step backward. Often, Marian felt like she was playing a waiting game when all she itched to do was continue moving forward.

She blinked again as the candlelight flickered, staring down at a new report written in Aveline’s hand. The report detailed the best way to send soldiers to Starkhaven without severely compromising Kirkwall’s safety. Sending soldiers stretched everyone further and Aveline’s proposals ensured a thin blanket of safety. It wasn’t ideal but seemed the only solution that the Guard-Captain had found that wouldn’t severely compromise Kirkwall’s safety. 

For awhile now, Marian had been mulling over the idea of boosting the city-guard’s number with the remaining Templar Order. Up until now at least, it had been easier to leave the Templars be, to allow Cullen, the former Knight-Captain and now Knight-Commander to take the reins. The Knight-Commander had acted swiftly, weeding out the corruption that had penetrated deep within the Kirkwall Order at the behest of Meredith’s madness. The tatters of Kirkwall’s Circle had been best left in Cullen’s hands.

The Gallows had already cut off from the rest of the city by Kirkwall Harbour. But now, it was quarantined out of necessity. Not only so Cullen could regain the control that had been lost there, but also out of necessity. Red Lyrium had festered there, spreading throughout the main courtyard. It was dangerous, Meredith’s stone corpse was proof of that. But it was also near on impossible to destroy and unknown. Marian and Cullen had decided that it was a necessary measure to contain any further spread of the volatile mineral.

Considering Aveline’s report, Marian decided that she would be an idiot to not at least sit down with Cullen and discuss the option of integrating templars into the rotation roster. The City-Guard needed a break and Marian could guess that the templars needed a change in scenery. It would be a temporary, but effective solution. 

Again the candle stuttered out, leaving Marian in near darkness. Watery moonlight filtered through the large windows, leaving long shadows. Hawke stared as the shadows seem to move and twist on their own accord. Suddenly craving light she fumbled in a desk drawer, desperately drawing out a fresh candle and lighting it with hasty, trembling hands. First one candle, then another and another, until the twisting, gaping shadows had disappeared; leaving her alone in the Keep once more. Breathing hard, Marian reached for the bottle of whiskey in front of her, taking desperate gulps with little mind to the glass that sat on the desk. The repeated gulps helped calm her racing heart, but it didn’t fully abate her panic. 

Methodically she reached for the pouch on her belt, tipping pearlescent blue powder onto the desktop. Her knife cut through the fine powder, arranging it into thin lines that spelled relief. She lowered her face towards it, stoppering one nostril so she could inhale the powder. Everything burned, the lyrium ripped through her body, sending energy through to the ends of her very fingertips. The candles burned brighter as Marian sat upright, rubbing her nose that itched every time she snorted the stuff. 

Her heart now racing at the behest of the lyrium and not mindless panic, Marian dipped her pen into the inkwell and penned a letter to Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Kirkwall Circle. She would deliver it personally at first sunlight. Though Marian was sure that sleep eluded Cullen as much as it eluded Marian. Sealing the envelope addressed to the Kirkwall Templar Order, Marian pulled a much grubbier report towards her. As important as city matters were, she wouldn’t neglect or ignore her own business.

Coal was still very much a necessary commodity. In its own way, the Maharian Quarry – the Bone Pit, even with its haunted history and bad reputation was a Maker sent relief for those desperate to work. The tale of the Viscountess herself ridding the quarry of a dragon was its own comprehensive endorsement of the improved working conditions. People had lined up for an opportunity to work there when Varric had put out the word that the Bone Pit was expanding its operations. But one quarry couldn’t carry the financial burden of the thousands strong population of Kirkwall, nor shoulder the city-states struggling economy. The sale of raw materials mined there barely paid the wages of its workers.

Even so, concentrating on something other than the compiling issues of Kirkwall did the trick in distracting Marian. Head lowered over her work and her pen scribbling away until her hand cramped, when Marian next looked up, the night was lightening into day. Only then, did Marian allow herself to rest her head on her desk, closing her eyes for a moment. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

Marian was shown into Cullen’s office after the conclusion of the morning services.

Always the gentleman, Cullen had shown Marian to her seat and called for some tea. As nice as a gesture as it was, Marian’s throat was dry and her head ached for something much stronger to see her through the day. Marian took the opportunity to really look at the Knight-Commander, who looked as tired as she felt.

Their tea was served and only when the door was closed with a smart snap, leaving them to speak in relative privacy, did Marian speak. “You look like shit.” Marian told Cullen.

Formalities were trivial, exercised only in public. They had been allies for some time now and while Marian didn’t hold much faith in Kirkwall’s Order, she had every confidence in its Knight-Commander.

Cullen poured Marian a cup of tea. “You are causing quite a stir.” He told her sternly. Taking a sip of his tea, Cullen frowned before adding a splash of milk. “What can I do for you Hawke?” Cullen inquired, pushing aside a stack of papers piled high on his desk, the better to see his guest. 

“Starkhaven has allied with us in return for military assistance. I cannot compromise Kirkwall, nor do I want to see the City-Guard worked to their last inch, things are hard enough as it is.” Marian began, unusually prepared to outline her case.

_Meredith would have had me write an essay if I wanted a favour from her_ , Marian considered, feeling annoying just thinking about the arduous task of getting a favour from the deceased Knight-Commander.

“You want to combine the City-Guard with templar patrols to ease the workload?” Cullen clarified, seeing where Marian was going with her request.

“Not only that, but it will be necessary to reintroduce the Order. People are sceptical of what is happening here, can’t really blame them.” Marian added as an afterthought, even though the logic of a gradual reintroduction had already occurred to her.

“I will send men to work under the Knight-Captain’s command. Maker knows it will do them some good to be away from this cursed place.” Cullen confirmed. Marian blinked, unused to having to fight tooth and nail to get anything from the templars. She could get used to this. 

Cullen was sorting through one of the smaller piles of paperwork on his immediate right. Extracting a thin file, he handed it to Marian. Flicking the file open, revealed a guard roster, complete with rotation times and proposed patrol routes that started and ended at the Gallows. Marian looked up at Cullen, nodding in unspoken appreciation.

“Meredith created these routes. There is no reason why we can’t use them again with some minor changes. I’m sure the Guard-Captain will find them useful.” Marian’s appreciation for such practicality quickly evaporated, even though Cullen spoke sense.

“If I had these a year ago…” Marian remarked, staring at the mapped patrol routes which would have made life easier in so many ways. Varric was right when he said that the Maker had an ironic sense of humour. Marian was just tiring of the fact that she was always the butt of the joke, whatever it was. 

Cullen was still holding onto his empty teacup, which he placed down in front of him. “If you had those routes a year ago, perhaps we would find ourselves in a very different situation.” Cullen commented, his expression hard. It wasn’t a direct comment on Marian’s actions, but a suggestion on what could have been. It was damning, to dwell on the _what ifs_ and the _could haves_. Marian tried not to dwell though, for all it did was make her heart race and the morning shadows lengthen. She grabbed her on teacup in a bid to hide the tremble in her hands.

 _There is no point in being kind_ , Marian mused. Neither Marian nor Cullen wanted to be where they were. Both had been thrust into a position of power that the didn’t want or need. The conversation had taken a decidedly personal turn unintentionally.

“Yet here we are. I do not have to tiptoe into the Gallows like a thief and you are now Knight-Commander.”

Cullen inclined his head, a frown firmly in place. “Indeed, Viscountess.”

A change of subject was in order, before the conversation deteriorated further. Not that the topic of business was much more desirable. Even so, Marian made a pointed effort: “How are things faring at the Gallows?”

“Rebuilding is – difficult. The red lyrium makes progress slow, we cannot build until the tainted lyrium has been removed. Even with our abilities it is difficult just to extract it. Destroying it is another matter.” Cullen answered, troubled at admitting the setbacks that were being faced.

“I’m sorry that Kirkwall cannot do more to help.” And Hawke was sorry, that the new Knight-Commander struggled to undo the bad that festered within the Gallows. Something flashed in Cullen’s eyes, something that Marian had missed. Given that she spent most of her days listening to the whinging of the elite, it was highly likely. Or perhaps her apology struck a chord. Another thing that Marian chose not to dwell on.

“That you are sitting here, willing to work together is a start. We must show solidarity.” 

“Solidarity or desperation?” Marian quipped. The corner of Cullen’s mouth twitched in suppressed humour, but he didn’t comment further.

Marian fiddled with the handle on the teacup. “It can be both you know.”

“I think not, Hawke.” The corners of Cullen’s mouth twitched again.

Marian snorted. “Starkhaven reached out in solidarity, Kirkwall answered in desperation.” It was summary of how that letter from Sebastian had come to arrive on her desk in the first place. Skipping over those rainy afternoons spent in the Chantry’s courtyard, talking about what could be – it should have hurt to talk about such things, but it didn’t.

“I would call it equivalent exchange.” Cullen remarked idly, though there was a troubled look lurking in his eye.

Marian pushed her cup and saucer onto the desk with a loud clatter. “Out with it, Knight-Commander. What do you know that I don’t?”

“You are already aware of it, Hawke. Your hold over the office of Viscountess isn’t as solid as it should be.” Marian rolled her eyes at Cullen’s answer.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” She challenged. Cullen had also abandoned his tea, pulling unfinished work towards him as their conversation continued. Most would have been offended at the seeming lack of attention. Marian wasn’t.

Cullen paused and looked up from his work, his pen poised over the inkwell.

“Your elf-mage-friend is helping the elves in the alienage rebuild. She is using wards to help strengthen the building foundations.” Cullen had resumed working as he spoke and as a result, didn’t see the guilty look cross the Viscountess’s face.

 _How long has it been since I last visited Merrill?_ Marian wracked her thoughts, trying to place a time and place, only to draw a blank. Pushing her guilt to the side, Marian’s immediate concern was that Cullen was aware that Merrill was using magic. Somehow, she doubted that the protection of the Champion of Kirkwall would still hold up.

“Is this a problem?” Marian pointedly asked. There were many questions that begged to be asked, but this one seemed the most pertinent. Despite being a negligent friend since stepping into the role of Viscountess, Marian’s priority was always Merrill’s immediate safety. 

“No, your word still holds. Another tenuous detail that threatens your own influence, I should add.” Cullen wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Anders had ensured that everyone knew of Marian’s unwilling and unwitting role in the destruction of the Chantry. It didn’t matter that he had blackmailed, her unknowing compliance was enough to damn her in many people’s eyes. Marian didn’t blame anyone questioning her acquaintances, even if it was no one else’s business but her own. 

“The Guard-Captain keeps a firm eye on the alienage as well.” Marian assured. Aveline still posted a guard to keep watch on _her_. Knowing the Guard-Captain as well as she did, Marian knew that there would be someone that wasn’t Varric watching Merrill. Cullen waved his hand dismissing the issue at hand – he trusted Marian’s word still, even if few did nowadays. 

The conversation fizzled out and it became obvious that Marian had worn out her welcome, Viscountess or not. Marian stood, brushing invisible crumbs from her limp robe – _when had I last changed my clothes?_ – and made for the door, Cullen’s eyes on her back. Yanking the door open, she was half through it before turning. 

“I’ll have the Guard-Captain contact you, about the patrols. Thank you, Knight-Commander.” Cullen opened his mouth, but the door had already clattered shut behind the Viscountess.

After a brief detour by the estate to change her robe – _“oh mistress, it’s good to see you!”_ – and a slightly longer one to confer with Aveline – _“Staying up all night again, Hawke? And then going to the Gallows without an escort? If you’re trying to get yourself killed, you’re going the right way about it.”_ – Marian trudged up the stairs of the Keep. There would likely be someone waiting for her and once the meetings started, they wouldn’t stop until the late afternoon.

Instead she found Bran’s desk empty and not a noble in sight. Turning towards the closed doors of her office, her left hand curled around the hilt of her sword, muscles tense – ready for a fight. Perhaps a good fight was just what she needed to shake the melancholy that gripped her. To stop her jumping at every shadow. Slowly, she twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, stepping inside to an empty office.

So where was her seneschal?

Her own footsteps took her to the courtroom, where Kirkwall’s laws were made and unmade. Where she had killed the Arishok…where she had taken the title of Viscountess. She hated this room, hated what it represented. From behind closed doors, Marian could hear Bran’s voice addressing matters involving Kirkwall. Judging from the titters that responded, there was a number of people inside with him.

Often, killing first and asking questions later was a sound tactic when it came to running around Kirkwall. Since taking on the mantle of Viscountess, Marian had been forced to learn that such a tactic was not necessarily the right one. Especially when information was pivotal to navigating the tricky, slippery slope of Kirkwall politics. 

It wasn’t hard to find a place to conceal herself. Long nights in the Keep also included exploring it to it’s fullest. The old building had eventually offered up some of it’s secrets. It’s how Marian knew the exact place to sequester herself away where she could hear and not be seen. There was a vent that had been installed by some unknown Tevinter so they could listen in on matters of council. 

“Our main concern is that the Viscountess is not operating to Kirkwall’s interests.” Romain Carrac spoke up and Marian snorted derisively. The man just didn’t like her.

“From what we’ve seen, most of the relief efforts have been focused on Lowtown and beyond. The only progress that we can see is that the Viscountess has capitalised on the refugees still plaguing Kirkwall by sending them to work outside of the city.” Another voice piped up. There was the lilting echo of Orlesian – a De Launcet. 

“The Viscountess has reiterated numerous times that the primary focus is ensuring adequate shelter for those effected by the rebellion. That would be the lower section of the city.” Marlein Selbrech spoke politely, if a little pointed. It was really to bad that Marlein didn’t carry more sway, the shrewd noblewoman carried more sense than most of them combined. Not for the first time was Marian grateful for her support. 

“And where is the Viscountess? She has not been seen today at all. Hardly the example of a leader wanting to raise our city from the rubble that it has been left in.” Ludovic Strulovitch was a prime example of a man who possessed more coin than brains. He was also periodically in Marian’s office, complaining about this and that simply because it suited him. Marian snorted again at his stupid question.

“The Viscountess has been working hard to ensure that resources are spread evenly.” Bran stressed. Marian rolled her eyes. Hearing Bran defend her work was a rare treat. The seneschal didn’t like Marian, seeing her as nothing more than a brutish refugee who had strong armed her way into influence and power. Marian decided she would savour the moment later, with a celebratory drink.

Marian had to wonder if Dumant had met the same level of resistance that Marian was currently facing. If this was the case, it was no wonder that the former Viscount had struggled to reform Kirkwall for the better. Even as Champion of Kirkwall, Marian had to pander to the nobility’s whims in some way. As Viscountess, it was a constant demand – part of the job description. 

“On a positive note, Starkhaven has aided in reenergising trade, which is boosting employment after the uprising. Kirkwall will send a contingent of soldiers to Starkhaven shortly to settle the city after the change in government. They will return with additional manpower and resources to continue recovery efforts.” Bran’s careful deliverance of the deal struck with Starkhaven sounded much better out of the seneschal’s mouth than if it had been Marian who had announced it. Even then, there was still an uproar of disapproval, it wasn’t surprising. 

“The Viscountess has admitted that the city guard is stretched thin, how is she meant to make up those numbers if we send _our_ people to Starkhaven!?” One noble shouted.

Still another, cried over the voices of his fellows: “The Viscountess is helping a lesser Vael take over Starkhaven and is compromising Kirkwall to do it!”

“If we are not careful, the Viscountess will lead us further down the path of ruin!” Marian scoffed, cursing the lot of them under her breath. Progress was continuously hindered due to their innate complaining. Every project that Marian submitted for approval needed to be amended until certain individuals were assured that their best interests would be protected. 

“We must ensure that the Viscountess doesn’t work to remove our influence. Bran, you are crucial in this.” The cacophony died when Carrac spoke up again and echoing sounds of agreement followed his statement. This man was quickly becoming a dangerous adversary and Marian wasn’t quite sure that she would be able to stand up to him without a sword. 

“Of course sir.” Bran agreed. At this point, was she really surprised that her seneschal had stabbed her in the back with the metaphorical knife? _No_. “I will examine the situation and return courses of action to you.”

Marian decided that she had heard enough. Slamming the vent closed, she stormed away. She didn’t care if she was seen in that moment. There were too many eyes on her, too many people seeking to control each and every move that she made to restore Kirkwall. They wanted progress, they wanted results – but they were not willing to put in the hard work to achieve it. They tried to make her bow to their whims and unrealistic needs. It was impossible to do so – Marian _refused_ to do as they bid. She wouldn’t – couldn’t let down the people who she had shared ale with or lifted her sword to defend.

This was a battle that she was unaccustomed to fighting. Fighting with coin and manpower and influence. Kirkwall’s ruling classes may waver on their support, but Marian Hawke still held the support of the people who filled their coffers.

If Marian wasn’t careful, Kirkwall would find itself embroiled in _another_ civil conflict. This was something that no one wanted. This time, the fight wouldn’t be physical and Marian Hawke was not prepared for it. 


	4. Part I: Chapter Three: King's Gambit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, warnings may apply in this chapter. 
> 
> If you didn't already gather, I like food. A lot.

**King's Gambit:** An aggressive chess strategy which requires sacrifice to gain the advantage. 

_Denerim, 9:37 Dragon_

Elissa Cousland was enjoying the hustle and bustle of being in the capital of Ferelden. She had only visited Denerim once or twice as a little girl and all she remembered was the constant clatter of carriages passing on cobblestoned streets and the smell of horse manure. As a girl, Elissa had disliked the constant bustle of a city. She’d preferred the landscapes of green, the rustle of the northern wind in the trees, the smell of salt in the air and the crash of waves on rock: Highever.

As a grown woman, Denerim held other appeals: the opportunity to dine with other ladies of her peerage and dealing face to face with merchants that she had corresponded with in letters only. Business for the terynir always seemed to take up most, if not all of Elissa’s day.

It was a happy coincidence that Elissa had come to the busy capital in the first place. Her brother’s delay in Antiva City meant that Fergus would likely miss the Landsmeet. Elissa was the teryn’s nominated representative for Highever in his absence. It was a nerve-wracking experience, preparing for the Landsmeet on her own. Since stepping up to Teryn, Fergus had encouraged her to join him, so she could experience the event for herself. Now, Elissa regretted not taking the opportunity when it had been given to her. 

Luckily, her brother’s timely arrival had freed Elissa to pursue other, more comfortable business for Highever. Mainly to encourage to merchants to increase their trade routes further north of Ferelden. Many merchants coming from the south by Denerim would only travel as far as the Amaranthine city before returning. There were enough coastal port towns with active trade that a merchant could justify making the longer trip. Elissa was the woman set to persuade the merchants that making the trip would be worth it. 

Fergus Cousland was schooled to one day become Teryn of Highever. He had been schooled in the finer nuances of governance, politics and military leadership. As teryn, Fergus showed himself to be a competent and caring leader, but it was Elissa who possessed a silver-tongue. The younger Cousland was able to find an amicable agreement in any negation that had less than favourable terms for both parties. Or, she was able to smooth over a disagreement with soothing choice words. When it came to conducting business, Elissa was the choice option to find the favourable agreement. Together, with Fergus’s political savviness and Elissa’s ease in conversation, the two siblings had become an iron-clad team that had helped the terynir of Highever flours and recover after the Ferelden civil-war. 

With Wintersend and Landsmeet festivities underway, Elissa curiously found herself with an afternoon free. With one of Fergus’s guard acting as her escort and her Mabari Barksley for company, Elissa had decided a tour of Denerim marketplace was the perfect way to spend her afternoon. She needed to find a new pair of riding gloves to replace her old, worn ones. Her perusing of the first few stalls hadn’t yielded anything suitable, though Elissa had found a handsome dyed green collar that complimented Barksley’s brindled coat. 

Elissa had finished fastening the new collar around Barksley’s thick neck and was admiring how handsome her hound looked when someone called out to her.

Standing, Elissa turned with a polite smile in place at the sight of a older, yet somewhat familiar woman. Her dress was of fine make, mimicking the fusion of Ferelden and Orlesian style that had dominated ladies court fashions. It was the silver banded; pearl tipped circlet that adorned her straw-coloured hair that had Elissa curtesy on the spot out of respect for the former Queen of Ferelden. Accompanying her was a Ferelden soldier. Her armour was well-polished and maintained and the gold braid that signified her rank encircled the soldier’s left arm. Elissa didn’t recognise the rank nor position. 

“I am Anora Therin and this is Threnn.” Lady Anora introduced herself and her guard companion. “It is such a delight to meet you at last!”

The sentiment was surprising to Elissa, who was unaware that the former Queen had an intimate idea of who she was. Elissa couldn’t remember ever meeting the former Queen of Ferelden, though Elissa knew that her mother and Anora had once been close friends. Anora’s determination and independence were qualities that every young nobly born girl admired, Elissa was no exception. At the feast following the Landsmeet, Elissa had caught glimpses of the former queen-consort, but no introductions had been made.

Though Anora had her titles stripped and declared an exile, King Alistair had her confined to Denerim and allowed Anora to attend court events. Elissa had always wondered why had allowed this of someone marked as an exile.

Barksley was sitting patiently next to Elissa and when he received no introduction, he let out an expectant whine. It also reminded Elissa to mind her manners.

“This is a surprise, my lady!” Elissa remarked, patting Barksley on the head to calm him. Lady Therin smiled dazzlingly before stooping to offer Barksley. Removing her gloves so she could offer a barehand for the hound to sniff. Then Anora carefully began scratching behind velvety ears.

“And what is your hound’s name?” Anora asked amused when Barksley let out a pleased grunt.

Elissa let out a fond laugh. “Barksley, Ser Barksley. A childish joke that stuck, I’m afraid. Though his name does make for an amusing story around the dinner table.” Anora finished petting the hound in question before standing back upright and pulled her gloves back on. 

“A fitting name for a brave hound, no doubt. Perhaps you will tell the story over tea one afternoon, tomorrow perhaps?” Anora invited, fixing her attention back on the younger Cousland.

Elissa shook her head, disappointed that she had to decline. “I’m sorry, but I am engaged tomorrow, the king’s hunt.”

“Of course, the Landsmeet hunt. It would be lovely to sit down for tea with you whilst you are in Denerim, or to peruse the market together. I was fond of your mother; it would be an honour to get to know her daughter.” 

There had been numerous invitations from other ladies for a tour of Denerim. But the opportunity to pick the mind of the woman who arguably ruled a nation through the voice of her husband was too good to pass up. Not to mention, Elissa was curious of the friendship Anora had with her mother.

“An afternoon tea would be lovely?” Elissa suggested. Anora gestured down the crowded street and Elissa fell into step with Anora, Barksley trotting just ahead of them.

“I will send a card so we can arrange a time that best suits you. I know that it’s hard to find time during the week of the Landsmeet.” Anora said kindly and Elissa made a noise of agreement. 

Anora changed the conversation, inquiring on how Elissa found Denerim. Elissa and Anora agreed that the capital city held many fanciful distractions, yet there simply wasn’t enough green in Denerim that one could call it home. It was somewhat refreshing to find someone who shared her same thoughts on Denerim.

Elissa found that conversing with Anora was easy, for Anora seemed to be unassuming in nature and possessed a witty, intelligent humour that always managed to make Elissa laugh. Their chance meeting came to an end much to soon, when Elissa realized that Anora had accompanied her back to the estates reserved for Highever. They made their farewells, much to Elissa’s disappointment though Anora promised again to be in touch to organize a luncheon before Elissa left Denerim to return to Highever. 

Elissa’s hand maid informed her that her brother had returned from the Royal Palace and was in his study. The estate study was a stark contrast to its counterpart in Highever. Simply decorated, the books stacked on the shelves were neatly ordered. Highever was much more cluttered and fuller in comparison. Elissa made herself comfortable in one of the plush armchairs that her mother had set beside the fireplace. Fingers tracing the material on the arm of the chair, Elissa was content to warm herself by the fire whilst Fergus worked. 

There was a rustle at the desk. “How was the market, sister?” Fergus asked, coming to join Elissa in the other chair that was set next to the one Elissa sat in.

“Busy. I found a new collar for Barksley.” As if prompted, the hound trotted into the study. Barksley placed his head in Fergus’s lap in search for more head-scratches. Elissa shook her head at the needy hound. 

Elissa continued, tone light. “I met Lady Anora Therin. She recognised me in the street.” Fergus’s attention snapped fully to his sister, a frown in place. “Anora sought you out?” he asked and Elissa sported a matching frown at her brother’s sudden show of concern.

“Not exactly. Lady Anora was touring the marketplace too, she recognised me. She was quite pleasant and she kindly escorted me back to the estate too.”

Though he still frowned, Fergus seemed uncertain and Elissa picked up on it. “What is it Fergus?”

Fergus seemed to be considering the crackling fire and Elissa was about to probe further when he finally spoke up: “I find it unusual that Lady Therin has sought you out now, but perhaps, she merely craves a friend.”

Elissa didn’t know what to make of her brother’s comment. As far as Elissa knew, Anora was confined to Denerim proper. The King had never decreed that she couldn’t socialise. When Fergus didn’t elaborate further, Elissa didn’t push the subject. Though after his reaction, she decided that she would keep her plans to meet with Anora for tea to herself.

Instead, Elissa sought to reassure her brother. “I’ll be returning to Highever at the end of the week, if something afoul is at work, it won’t have time to set root.” The reminder of her return to Highever seemed to alleviate whatever concern Fergus had about her meeting Anora.

Fergus shook his head, stroking Barksley’s head affectionately before looking at Elissa. “I was being silly, forgive me?” He asked her.

Elissa nodded in agreement. “One of your more ridiculous moments, brother.” Fergus rolled his eyes in a childish gesture. But conceded the point to his younger sister.

“The King extended an invitation for you to join this evening’s dinner. He said and I quote ‘your sister will help liven up boring political conversation.’” Fergus told her, pointedly changing the subject before Elissa could comment further on his neurotic tendencies. 

Elissa leaned forward so she could nudge her brother lightly. “Isn’t it lovely that the King has finally met the better Cousland?” She asked, a teasing glint in her eye. Fergus swiped at his sister playfully. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

Anora smoothed out non-existent creases in her dress as she waited for Elissa Cousland to arrive. The last time Anora had seen the younger Cousland, she had been on the cusp of womanhood with hair that frizzed everywhere and a seemingly permanent mud stain on the hem of the dress she wore. As a woman, her hair had tamed somewhat and a purposeful stride stopped the mud from sticking to the hem of her dress. Her maturity showed in the firm set of her shoulders, the knowing gleam in her eye and the smooth manner that she carried a conversation.

Elissa Cousland’s appearance at the Landsmeet had been Anora’s puzzle piece that would later easily slide into place. Anora’s next problem would have been engineering a seemingly organic meeting. It had been sheer chance that Anora had spotted Elissa Cousland in the street. The brief conversation on their short walk had revealed that Elissa had matured into a striking woman with a talent for conversation, not unlike her mother Eleanor. Highever was flourishing, which suggested that Elissa too had a knack for administration as well.

It was clear that the younger Cousland stood in a calibre of her own. As far as marriageable choices went, the King would be a fool to not consider her. Anora had seen how the King had conversed with Elissa easily, showing her favour that he seldom showed others in a public setting. 

So Anora had invited the younger woman to tea, so she could plant the seeds in Elissa’s mind that would further Anora’s cause. 

For being reintroduced to Elissa Cousland reminded Anora of an important fact. House Cousland had a legitimate claim to the Ferelden throne through an ancient alliance that had been made with Calenhad himself. Indeed, Loghain her father had thwarted the Bannorn’s attempt at putting Bryce Cousland on the throne after Cailan’s death. _Foolish_ , Anora had chided herself, for forgetting such an important detail. 

Lady Elissa Cousland was Anora’s way back to the throne of Ferelden.

As if Anora’s thoughts had summoned the lady in question, the bell rang. Anora leapt from her chair in her eagerness to greet her unknowing ally. 

Elissa Cousland stood on the doorstep when Anora opened the door. She wore a pale green dress that accented the red in her hair, a covered basket was tucked safely in the crook of her arm. Anora showed Elissa through to the parlour and Elissa revealed the contents in her basket. An assortment of pastries, savoury and sweet – _I’m sorry, I didn’t know what you preferred!_ – and tea was served.

And Anora wasn’t disappointed, neither in the selection of pastries that Lady Elissa had brought or the compelling conversation. Carefully, Anora shaped her questions with the purpose of gathering information about Elissa Cousland herself. It was a refreshing challenge, forcing Anora to think on her feet and phrasing each question carefully without tipping her companion of her true reason for such questions. Anora allowed Elissa to lead the conversation and she was able to paint a comprehensive picture about Elissa’s education and upbringing through to whether she was an eligible bachelorette or promised to another. Each question was delicately layered upon the other until Anora was able to ask an important one: would the Teryn of Highever be open to a potentially advantageous match for Elissa?

Elissa’s cheeks had coloured with a blush as she’d shifted unconsciously in her seat. Anora had sipped her tea, intrigued by her companion’s reaction. 

“The King’s announcement at the Landsmeet has certainly caused quite the stir. I am eager to see who he chooses as his bride.” Elissa told Anora, cheeks still pink with embarrassment as she reached for a sweet fruit-mince pie. Elissa busied herself further by topping up the black tea in both her own and Anora’s cups. It seemed that Anora had picked at a sore point and it was this point that she would begin her work.

“You would not consider putting yourself forward for consideration? I see an accomplished woman adept at administration. You would adjust to royal life well.” Elissa’s cheeks darkened even more at Anora’s compliment. Her teacup clattered against the saucer as a sudden bout of nerves overtook her. It was uncharacteristic of what Anora had so far seen of Elissa Cousland. It was like another woman had taken her place, this one less at ease and uncomfortable in her own skin.

“That is high praise, my lady and I thank you for it. Though, such confidence is unfounded.” Elissa finally murmured. Anora hid her frown behind the pretence of wiping her mouth of crumbs with her napkin as she puzzled out such a reaction.

Anora placed her napkin aside and affirmed her previous point. “Such words are not uttered lightly. Ruling a country requires a certain character.” Elissa again answered with softly uttered words and Anora realized that Elissa Cousland didn’t hold herself in high esteem – if at all. A surprising fact on its own, one that she would be able to use to push Elissa in the right direction. 

Lifting the teacup, Anora paused as if a thought had just occurred. “And what of the King? I have only seen the two of you converse at the Landsmeet feast, yet I would swear that there was some flirtation.” The nonchalant comment followed a delicate sip of tea.

“Oh no, you are quite mistaken. My brother and the King are close confidants. My brother likely regaled the King with stories that would have painted me in a less than flattering light.” Elissa laughed lightly, though it was obvious that she was convinced that her statement was true. It was insecurities that fuelled such self-deprecating thoughts, it would take a more careful hand to convince Elissa that she was worthy for what Anora had in mind for her. 

“And yet, the King was flirting with you.” Anora insisted before taking another sip of tea.

Elissa shook her head and Anora saw that she was pushing too hard. “Forgive me, but I am not so convinced.”

It was an incredibly forward risk to do so, yet Anora dared to lean forward and place a hand on top of Elissa’s, squeezing it quickly before withdrawing. “Forgive me for pushing, I only sought to point out what I had thought had occurred organically.” Anora apologised and Elissa shook her head, a small smile returning.

“There was no insult, my lady. You flatter me.”

Anora sensed a change in subject was in order, but she knew that her words would sit with Elissa, that she would stew over them when sleep eluded her and she began to question every interaction that she had had with Alistair Therin thus far. She would stress her point and then change the subject and call a day’s work well done.

“Elissa, you are a delightful woman – any man would be lucky to be able to call you wife, the King doubly so. A strong queen strengthens a king.” Anora reached forward and patted her guest’s hand once more.

“But enough of that, tell me the story about your Mabari’s namesake. You said it was an interesting story, that was the highlight of dinner parties. Would you share it with me?”

Elissa needed no prompting, eager to change the uncomfortable topic of conversation. She immediately launched into an animated story of how the name Ser Barksley was dubbed to an exuberant Mabari hound with no further prompting.

Later, when Anora had seen Elissa off, thanking her for the company and an invitation to return at her earliest convenience, the exiled Queen of Ferelden retired to her study. Pulling a sheet of paper towards her, she began to write out her instructions. It was in Anora’s best interests after all that the fledging relationship between King Alistair Therin and Lady Elissa Cousland blossomed.

Anora would make sure that the seeds she had planted had the chance to grow. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

_Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon_

The blustery wind blew salt around Marian as she picked her way along the Wounded Coast. Marian pulled her coat tighter around her, trying to shield herself from the wind. Scout ran ahead, nose to the ground, fulfilling her namesake. The smell of salt and sand was refreshing after the stink of Kirkwall. The warm heat of the sun on her back was oddly comforting. At the bend in the path, Hawke stopped and fished out her flask, taking a swig of whiskey whilst she waited for Scout to return with the all clear. 

Traipsing the coastline by herself wasn’t exactly the smartest thing Marian Hawke had done lately, but she had been spoiling for a fight for days now. Foolish bandits who didn’t know better was an invigorating prospect. Luckily – or unluckily, Scout came racing back with a yip, signalling the all clear. Tucking the flask back into her pocket, Marian pushed on, reaching the cluster of bushes that hid where the path branched off. A wary glance around to check that indeed there were no one around, Marian pushed through the brush. 

It was no longer wise nor safe to discuss city-state affairs in the Keep. Not only was it exhausting trek, but also a waste of a day to head to the Wounded Coast and back. Marian had done it enough times that it was like a walk around the block. No noble would go to the trouble of sending men to follow her, however. And if someone did, well it was fortunate that Marian was overdue for sword-practice.

The hidden, relatively untrodden path was thankfully short, opening out into a familiar clearing that offered a view of the Waking Sea. Marian and Scout were the first to arrive. The waves crashed against the rocks below her and Marian for the briefest moment, entertained the notion of flinging herself off the cliffside. Leaving her fate in the hands of the tempestuous Waking Sea seemed like a sure bet compared to Kirkwall. Scout whined in excitement from where she was snuffling in the sand. Marian turned around, just as Varric crashed through the brush.

“Hawke, this cloak and dagger escapade is unbecoming.” Varric announced as he brushed stray leaves off his shoulders. Bianca was strung on his back and he sported a wild grin. Scout let out a excited bark and the sight of the dwarf, abandoning whatever she had been investigating to greet her friend.

Merrill followed at a more sedate pace, following the path that Varric had created. A bulging satchel was slung over her shoulder and the Dalish elf carried a basket in hand.

“Its nice to be away from the city though, perhaps next time we could go up the Sundermount?” Marian couldn’t help the fond smile at Merrill’s absent question. 

It would be a lie to say that Marian would be happy to traipse Sundermount, but for Merrill she was at least willing to compromise: “It’s a bit further out, I’ll see what I can do.”

Marian was rewarded with a bright smile for her efforts and Merrill moved to set her basket down under a tree, pulling a blanket from her full satchel and spreading it out over the sandy ground.

“This was Daisy’s idea. The Hanged Man gets boring you know.” Varric told Marian, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Varric’s words reminded her of what Cullen had told her and along with it the harsh reminder that Marian had failed to check with Merrill for some time now. Before becoming Viscountess, it had been every day – at least once. Marian’s shoulders slouched as she berated herself and without thinking went to go and help her friend, but Varric stopped her. 

“We miss you Hawke. You’re never home when we stop by.” Varric told her. Marian could hear the concern in his voice and it felt like there wasn’t anything she could do about. She let out a sigh, shaking her head. 

“I’m here now, I hope that’s enough.” She told Varric, joining Merrill on the blanket before Varric could say anymore on the subject. Merrill’s happiness was not only distracting, but infectious. She had really outdone herself with the grand spread that she had put together for the occasion. 

When Aveline and Donnic arrived hand in hand, the small group sat down to a lunch that was a classic Ferelden ploughman’s fare with Dalish influence. Smoked cheese, a speckled bread flavoured with tea leaves, dried fruit and a thick crust. Cold leek sausages and salted fish pieces with potato and spiced flat cakes to finish.

Marian hadn’t eaten such a large meal in weeks. Leaning against Scout, who was napping in the sun, she listened to Varric’s lively storytelling, her belly full. For the moment, Marian was somewhat content, if melancholic for the friends whose adventures had taken them away from Kirkwall. It had been months since Fenris’ last letter and word of mouth wasn’t exactly reliable when it came to Isabela’s whereabouts. Without them the day was incomplete. Marian sighed again, combing her fingers through Scout’s short coat.

But the sun wasn’t going to stay any higher in the sky and a trek back to Kirkwall at night wasn’t smart, still, Marian was reluctant to move the conversation to business. Aveline was the one who finally broached the topic, direct as ever: “We can’t speak freely in the Keep anymore, can we Hawke?”

Marian nodded wearily. “I overheard Bran meeting with Kirkwall’s noble families. They are not convinced that what is being done is enough. Nor is it in their best interests.”

Merrill surprised them all, angrily spitting out something in Dalish. Marian was sure that she was cursing in Dalish. Marian caught Varric’s eye with an amused smirk. Merrill was always the calm in the storm, a pleasant elf who just wanted to be left alone. Marian could count on one hand the number of times she had lost her temper over the years that they had known one another.

Merrill hadn’t finished expressing her outrage though.

“You are not doing enough Hawke. You are doing too much!” Marian went to assure her incensed friend, roles suddenly and strangely reversed. Usually it was Merrill who soothed wayward tempers.

The elf held up a hand, cutting off Marian. “There are ships coming back to trade, food is being brought back into the city and my people were given the tools we needed so we can rebuild our homes. We are not thankful to those who have done nothing. We are thankful to _you_ , Hawke.” 

Merrill was no longer naïve to the wider world. She had suffered along with her people in the alienage. At some point, she had become responsible for the Kirkwall elves, a role that she had easily conformed too. Her outburst was more than an expression of anger and Marian found a reassurance in Merrill’s indignant rage that she hadn’t know she’d needed. The sleepless nights and alcohol tempered days hadn’t gone unnoticed by the people that mattered. The people that mattered saw that she worked to make their lives better. Throat thick with emotion all Marian could do was pat Merrill’s hand reassuringly.

Donnic brought them back to where they were before Merrill’s unprecedented outburst. “We shouldn’t be quick to trust our homes either with confidential matters.” Aveline nodded in agreement.

Merrill had calmed down enough to add: “We could speak in the alienage, though the mountains have an appeal”. From there the group began to make suggestions on safer places where they could speak freely, without threat of being overheard. Anders’ old clinic had been left abandoned, his continued but in a place that didn’t remind everyone of his actions. For an emergency conference, it was as good a place as any. As Marian pointed out, no noble would set a foot in Darktown and if they did, there were ways to lose them.

Varric brought the derailed conversation back to why Marian had asked them to meet on the Wounded Coast in the first place. “What are we going to do with Kirkwall’s finest?” he asked Marian pointedly. She shrugged non-committedly. Marian refused to deviate from what she had started.

An alliance with Starkhaven would go ahead and so too would taxes remain at a higher rate until Kirkwall reached a level of financial security that they could be lowered once more. Aveline and Cullen had begun phasing Templars into the guard rotation, much to some people’s outrage, but the added numbers to the guard was making a difference.

Marian shrugged again. “Let them bemoan their misfortunes. I was given the stupid task of cleaning up this city, that’s what I’m doing.” Aveline and Donnic made noises of agreement.

“I’m still concerned at maintaining order in Darktown and the slums. The city-guard cannot go there, but a militia can. Donnic had been recruiting.” Aveline explained after a careful look at her husband.

“There is more interest in militia than the city-guard. The idea is to build the militia’s numbers and then transfer into the guard. Then they can go where the city-guard can’t.” Donnic added. The trickling numbers of recruitment that Aveline had been giving her suddenly made sense. It wasn’t for the lack of recruits, but that they where they were being assigned. It was a _great_ idea and Marian understood why Aveline and Donnic had kept quiet about it. Aveline knew that Marian trusted implicitly in all matters. If Aveline and Donnic had decided that a militia was necessary to maintain order in Kirkwall, Marian would support the move without question. 

“Do you have enough gold for weapons, armour and training? If you need it, I can reappropriate from elsewhere.” Marian asked seriously. Aveline exchanged another look with her husband.

Donnic answered: “For the moment, the allocation to the Guard is adequate. If the numbers continue increasing, we will need additional funding.” Marian pinched the bridge of her nose. It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy that Aveline and Donnic were making progress, it was the lack of coin. There was only so much of it that Kirkwall had access to. They were stretched thin as it was.

Varric leaned forward then, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I am a resident of Hightown, I do miss a stroll in the Keep’s gardens since their destruction.”

The Keep’s gardens had survived the rioting and Qunari invasion, Marian went to ask Varric if he was losing his mind. The copper dropped when Varric winked at her, of course. It was a vital investment to restore the Keep’s gardens that were closed off to all but the Kirkwall nobility. 

Playing along, Marian nodded in agreement. “Of course I can arrange an evaluation for a restoration. I am sure that Hightown would _love_ to see their Viscountess taking some initiative to better their existence.” Marian’s statement was dripping with sarcasm. Aveline, always stoic and to the point was struggling to contain her amusement. Donnic even wore a smug grin. Only Merrill looked confused at the sudden turn in discussion.

“But I went to the gardens the other day? The guards even opened the doors for me.” Varric patted Merrill’s hand. For all of her newfound worldliness, Merrill still hadn’t quite grasped sarcasm as a concept. “I’ll explain it on the way back Daisy.” Varric told her.

“We’ll discuss at the Keep” Marian suggested in that same light manner. His eyes twinkling with mischief, the two shook hands in mock agreement.

That item addressed; conversation turned to other pertinent topics. Having little to contribute bar progress that the alienage was making, Merrill curled up beside Marian, the elf resting her head on Marian’s lap. Absentmindedly, Marian combed her fingers through the elf’s short tresses. It was reminiscent of what she used to do with Bethany, making Marian wonder where in the world her sister was. _Was she even alive?_ Their last meeting hadn’t exactly been amicable. Perhaps it was time for Marian to find her.

“Hawke?” Aveline called and Marian looked up, making a hasty apology. “Starkhaven?” Aveline prompted.

“Sebastian is gaining ground, seems like his return was well-timed. Kirkwall soldiers are giving a shock factor that no one counted on. We’ve done good.” Marian reported.

Varric chuckled. “Who would have thought that Choir-Boy actually was capable of pulling it off?” Aveline scoffed at the dwarf’s comment and Marian leaned over Merrill to shove Varric playfully.

Talk then turned to Kirkwall’s restoration. It really was just like old times, dissecting everything and examining how they could use a situation to their advantage. Only now, it wasn’t playful discussions that would result in the take-down of an errant gang, but decisions that could potentially affect an entire city. The thought served to put a dampener on Marian’s easy-going mood. The day was getting away from them all though and the group were forced to part ways for the return trek to Kirkwall. It was what put a dampener on the day, the necessity of travelling separately not to arise suspicion that quickly fizzled Marian’s mood. 

Her mood only soured further when Marian crossed back through the city gates, the Twins of Kirkwall looming in the horizon. Making for Hightown, Marian stopped halfway up the narrow staircase that bridged the divide between Hightown and Lowtown. Decision made, she turned on her heel and stomped back down the stone steps, making for the crumbling staircase that would take her to the Kirkwall alienage.

Marian could feel the eyes of people on her, watching as she marched purposely into the alienage, a great sword strapped to her back and a Mabari trotting happily by her side. She knew the people watching her _heard_ as she called out greetings to the denizens who had sat up tents underneath the _vhenadahl_ whilst the rebuilding was underway.

Marian knew that this would serve as a reminder. That the Viscountess was one of them, who had risen from nothing and gained seemingly everything. It was a reminder that she hadn’t forgotten them and Marian would be damned if she didn’t send a clear message to those who had forgotten her humble roots.


	5. Part I: Chapter Four: Hamartia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.
> 
> Additional warning: There is violence and mental episodes onset by drugs depicted in this chapter. Take care.

**Hamartia:** A fatal flaw leading to the downfall of a tragic hero or heroine. 

_Denerim, 9:37 Dragon_

Alistair finished reading the missive from Orzammar before carefully placing the fancy paper onto his desk in a sedate manner. Teagan and Fergus watched the King carefully, not expecting such a measured response. The chair that Alistair sat on creaked when he leaned back and let out a long laugh. Fergus and Tegan exchanged flabbergasted looks, which only added to Alistair’s mirth. The dwarven proposal was preposterous. It even seemed like Teagan and Fergus hadn’t expected Alistair to find the humour in the situation either, which was slightly depressing.

“I said it the first time we met you know. Bhelen is certifiably insane.” Alistair said as he slapped his thigh lightly.

Teagan and Fergus exchanged glances again. “There is some sense in the proposal. What better way to cement the relations between Orzammar and Ferelden than through marriage?” Teagan tentatively commented. Alistair wiped the water in his eyes away with the back of his hand. Maker he hadn’t laughed like that in an Age. It felt _good_. 

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Alistair answered his uncle’s question. “Because Bhelen’s endgame is opening Orzammar to the surface to generate more income. Bhelen is running out of things to trade, so now he’s offering up some poor lady of his House.” Teagan’s eyes widened at Alistair’s rare criticism of another ruler. The King of Orzammar and King of Ferelden had a shared history and it was a bloody one. Alistair had always held back on his true opinion on Bhelen’s rule, out of respect to the dwarf. But this time, Alistair found himself remarkable more eager and ready to comment on the situation.

Fergus leaned forward, gesturing to the missive in an unasked. Happily, Alistair passed the missive to his friend and mentor. There was a pause in the conversation as Fergus skimmed the finer details of the Orzammar missive.

“It’s not exactly unprecedented. Marriage and trade agreements go hand in hand.” Fergus eventually commented, he slid the missive back to Alistair. Alistair shrugged; the same thought had occurred to him.

“Orzammar and Ferelden have strong military _and_ trade agreements. There is no need for a political marriage to ensure continued good relations with the dwarves. Bhelen knows this, he’s just grasping at straws.” Alistair said in a tone that said that was no need to discuss the matter further. 

“We will have to draft a response that respectfully declines the offer and does not harm the agreements that we already have in place.” Teagan pointed out with stern disapproval.

Alistair pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Bhelen won’t jeopardise everything because I turned down his bogus marriage offer.” Teagan wasn’t as easily convinced as Fergus appeared to be.

Alistair rubbed his temples as he said: “We can just tell Aeducan that I found a suitable match. Heck invite the dwarves to the wedding. The dwarves know how to party. “ 

This time Fergus and Teagan exchanged looks of exasperation. Alistair was teasing them both, knowing that the same thought was likely crossing both of their minds: _the king knew better than to respond to diplomatic incidents in such a trivial manner_. Really, the frivolity of the conversation was what made the discussion so amusing. Fergus was always good for a laugh, but when he was focused on his work, nothing would distract him. Teagan was Teagan, though Alistair was certain that he secretly laughed when no one could see or hear him.

“Actually no. We should tell the dwarves that I’m engaged and then send another fifty or soldiers to soften the blow. _Then_ we invite House Aeducan to the wedding.” Alistair exclaimed, as if the big idea had just occurred to him. On the contrary, Alistair had thought of the solution when he had first read the missive but had wanted Teagan’s input as Ferelden’s chief diplomat. 

“How pragmatic of you, your majesty.” Teagan commented dryly. This time, it was Alistair and Fergus who exchanged looks. The King flashed his friend a mischievous grin, whilst his mentor could do no more than shake his head at the King’s dramatics.

Confident now that his approach was the logical one to make, Alistair penned a quick note to the officials at Fort Drakon. Folding the note unevenly and stuffing it into an envelope, Alistair sealed the letter with the King’s stamp. Teagan was already sounding out a draft for declining Orzammar’s proposal. Going to the door, Alistair called for the aide. Alistair turned back to continue the conversation with Teagan. 

“Your Majesty, sir.” The gruff voice announced the courier’s arrival. Alistair turned to the aide, his good humour vanishing at seeing the forced, stiffed salute by Threnn Meier.

Threnn was one Loghain’s remaining soldiers who had accepted transition into Ferelden’s army. Only a small number of Loghain’s soldiers had transferred into the Ferelden army, with the remainder refusing to enter the King’s employ. Alistair wouldn’t ignore the fact that Loghain was a brilliant tactician who had been skilled in the art of warfare. He had sought to work closely with Loghain’s soldiers and officers and whilst some had been promoted into the higher ranks of the Ferelden army, Threnn Meier wasn’t one of those soldiers. A terrible waste of a brilliant soldier, in his opinion. 

Alistair also recognized the loyalty to Loghain. He wouldn’t punish their former allegiances but had instead made it clear that it was no longer the Mac Tir banner that they fought under. It was the Therin banner that they now raised their sword and shields too. Threnn had resisted Alistair’s orders, speaking freely of Loghain’s view which had indirectly undermined the commands of the King. Her words were borderline seditious, an offence punishable by death. Yet Alistair had intervened on her behalf anyway, recommending that she be transferred out of active combat and into a supportive role within the army. 

Thus, Threnn Meier had been transferred from the infantry into the aide corps. It simply meant that there were more eyes to keep a wary eye on Threnn, including the King himself. 

“I need this taken to Fort Drakon. Please ensure that your return is with a reply.” Alistair instructed, handing the letter to Threnn. He watched carefully as she tucked it into the satchel slung over her shoulder before saluting.

“At once, your majesty.” She confirmed.

“Thank you, courier. That is all.” Alistair watched Threnn depart, closing the door to the study only when she had passed out of sight and taking his seat once more.

“What is your plan to offer Orzammar, your majesty?” Fergus asked, undoubtedly asking the question that Teagan wanted to know the answer too.

“Grain. Though I would prefer to send troops to aid in pushing back the darkspawn. Grain is a last resort, the Ferelden people come first.” 

“I am to also presume that we delay in sending this – rejection letter, as it were – for as long as politely possible?” Teagan asked dryly.

‘Of course, don’t you have Orlais to turn down as well?” 

Fergus spluttered around a mouthful of ale. “ _Orlais_?” Alistair waggled his brows as Fergus mopped up spilt ale and sorted through various missives. He pulled out the ostentatious Orlesian proposal and handed it to Fergus to read. 

“Oh yes, almost a week ago. The Empress recommended Lady Chrestienne de Montfort. The daughter of one of Celene’s allies.” Alistair supplied, his tone suggesting that he would have tossed the missive on the fire immediately if such an action wouldn’t have sparked an international incident.

Fergus chewed absentmindedly on the end of the quill that was in hand. “De Montfort is a familiar name, though I couldn’t tell you where I’ve heard of it before.”

Teagan jumped in here. “House de Montfort are loyal allies of the Empress herself - related to the Empress through her mother. It is a safe assumption that Empress Celene is still pushing to unify Ferelden and Orlais.”

One of the first major challenges to Alistair’s rule was Orlais. Blight-ravaged Ferelden was vulnerable, a devastated country that was ripe for the taking. It was an on-going saga of Orlesian nobles challenging Ferelden over their lost provinces, with the occasional noble attempting to march their forces across both land and sea borders.

Alistair himself had ridden with the forces sent to knock the Orlesians back, reminding both Orlais and Ferelden that the new Therin King was an established warrior well accompanied with a battle. A King who fought with his men. On the third occasion that Ferelden had bested the Orlesians, correspondence from the Empress herself arrived on Alistair’s return to Denerim. The new king’s efforts had warranted her full attention at last. There was a notable change, Orlesian efforts became more passive, though the attempts to enter by force were still common, lessening as the years had passed.

“Unification?” Fergus quizzed, setting the missive down not so carefully on the desk. The Teryn of Highever had played a large role in boosting trade and opening Ferelden to Orlesian imports. It was a continuation of his father’s work; to create a stable and peaceful friendship between Orlais and Ferelden after the occupation. A project that Alistair supported and had allowed Fergus to spearhead. Trade agreements had allowed the King to establish a tenuous, yet amicable friendship with Orlais. Alistair had purposely kept the idea of unification out of any discussions.

“There is evidence to suggest that my…predecessor sought peace with Orlais through marriage himself.” Butter wouldn’t melt from the King’s cold tone.

Teagan paused in his work to add: “Celene is a discerning empress. Eamon believes that she is seeking a similar outcome, but this time with a candidate of her own choosing.”

“Ruling by proxy.” Fergus guessed and Teagan nodded.

“It’s a ‘if you can’t beat them, you might as well join them’ tactic. One can conquer without an army. I am willing to work closely with Orlais to overcome past grievances and build a future friendship, but no more. Ferelden needs to focus on _herself_. I will not enter into these ridiculous games with overdressed neighbours simply because they want something.” Alistair refuted coolly.

The king knew that many thought he was a pushover of a King, too busy joking to make smart decisions for the betterment of his country. For all his joking, Alistair did take the safety of Ferelden seriously. He wouldn’t allow the Orlesians back into Ferelden so easily. 

Fergus shook his head before fixing Alistair with a wry grin. “Has a lady caught your eye yet? Or are you simply going to delegate Ferelden’s resources to appeasing every scorned noble and nation?” Alistair rolled his eyes at his colleague before turning to Teagan.

“Is that an option uncle? And then we can just avoid this farce altogether?”

An objection was on Teagan’s tongue, ready to be voiced when he spotted the twinkle of mirth in his nephew’s eyes. A servant knocked on the door, entering with a laden serving tray, halting the conversation. They were served a cold lunch of assorted cured meats, savory relishes and freshly baked bread with butter and a selection of cheeses: goat, cheddar and an Orlesian variety that was rich and creamy to taste.

Thankfully for Alistair, with the arrival of their cold meal, the subject of marriage was forgotten. Talk turned to Highever with Fergus set to depart Denerim to return home to oversee the collection and management of land taxes owed to the teryn. Fergus also announced that Elissa intended to stay in Denerim instead of returning with her brother, much to Alistair’s surprise. Alistair wasn’t surprised when Fergus asked that a careful eye was kept on Elissa whilst he was tending to Highever’s business. 

It was hard not to like Elissa Cousland. Her relaxed, but polite manner and kindly smiles made it easy for anyone to converse with her. Animated conversation with the lady always proved to be entertaining. Alistair had quite enjoyed the few dinners that she had attended with her brother, often with the conversation extending late into the night and traversing an assortment of subjects. It wouldn’t be hard to fulfil Fergus’s wishes at all. 

Finishing their midday meal, Alistair was called away to attend to other matters of the kingdom in the palace’s council rooms. Together, Teagan and Alistair wound their way through the halls of the palace in comfortable silence when Teagan spoke up: “If you have not considered Lady Elissa, perhaps you should. The union would be beneficial to you both.”

Alistair should have known that such a conversation would eventually surface. Still, he let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Teagan–” He began, already gripping at straws as to _why_ Elissa Cousland would not be a suitable option. Teagan held up a hand before Alistair was able to plead his case.

“Fergus would never suggest this to you and after the heartache and grief the Cousland’s have suffered, having Elissa married is likely the last thing Fergus wants. This is why she is suitable. The Teryn is your mentor and the lady herself has experience in land administration and delegation. – ”

Alistair cut in, trying to silent his insistent uncle. “Teagan, please.”

Teagan continued, despite Alistair’s request that he not push the matter. “– And it seems that the two of you get along well enough. I know that you do not want this, you have turned both Orzammar _and_ Orlais. Your bride, whoever she is, needs to be someone that will benefit Ferelden and ideally, someone who Orlais _cannot_ touch.”

Alistair let out another noise, this time of frustration. His uncle was right and he couldn’t fault him for the unwanted counsel, however necessary it may be. But luck was on Alistair’s side for once and the waiting council was already seated, waiting for the King of Ferelden. 

Teagan pushed his point as Alistair’s hand grasped the door handle. “Lady Elissa has her own backing through titles alone. She has nothing to gain by assuming the role of queen. She is a safe bet – a strong bet.”

Alistair didn’t acknowledge his uncle as he breezed through the doors, the occupants of the room hurriedly standing to attention.

* * * * * * * * * * * 

_Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon_

Marian’s stunt in the alienage – as Bran had not so delicately labelled it – were causing an uproar amongst the citizens of Hightown. 

Since their first meeting on the Wounded Coast, Marian had met with her friends on a weekly basis. It was always followed by a night spent in the alienage, much to the seneschal’s chagrin. When Bran had objected the second time, she had tried to leave the Keep, Marian had coolly informed the seneschal that even the Viscountess was entitled to a day to spend with her family. Weather permitting, she had met with her friends all over Kirkwall. When heavy rain kept them from their merry hike up to the Bone Pit, Marian and Varric had hosted staged a meeting in the Tethras Estate. 

It had been a gamble that had paid off. It had confirmed that at least _three_ of the noble houses in Kirkwall were keeping an unrelenting eye on every little thing that the Viscountess of Kirkwall said and did. So Marian had made a point to spend a very loud, drunken and violent night in the Hanged Man. The night had ended in a jolly bar fight that had been broken up by the Guard-Captain herself. It had been well worth the lecture on propriety from Aveline and the horrified one from her seneschal, though Marian was positive she had seen an amused grin when Aveline had arrived in the Hanged-Man. 

That was not to say that Marian was neglecting her work. On the contrary, her working day seemed to increase with each passing day. Reopening Kirkwall’s ports had pushed the appointment of an adept and _uncorrupted_ chief-harbourmaster up the agenda.

Kirkwall had sent missives to Orlais, Ferelden, Antiva and the other Free Marcher cities; inviting them to trade once more, promising a secure port and negotiable rates on port taxes. Her arrangement with Starkhaven benefitted here. Starkhaven goods were being received and returned with little incident. However addressing the underhanded deals and inflated import taxes on specific goods from specific points of origins had established a precent that had resumed with the docks reopening. Hence the needs for a _new_ Chief-Harbourmaster. When the Viscountess had come calling at the harbourmaster’s office, expecting to be met with the cool indifference of Chief-Harbourmaster Liam, Hawke discovered that Liam’s equally uninterested assistant was the one that had assumed charge.

Chief-Harbourmaster Liam, Aden had informed Hawke snidely, had disappeared sometime between Marian’s first visit with the Guard-Captain which had resulted in a clash with the Coterie and her last visit where she had promptly set Smetty’s Fish Guttery on fire after being poisoned. Hawke wouldn’t have been surprised if the harbourmaster had met a grisly end at the Raiders for swindling them of coin. Their meeting had continued, with Aden griping about this and that, but the harbourmaster hadn’t been able to produce evidence of shipping manifests with taxes paid. Another hole where Kirkwall leaked essential coin that needed to be sealed quickly. 

It was with great delight that Marian had personally escorted Aden out of the harbourmaster’s office, thanking him for the time spent in service to Kirkwall, but the Viscountess’s office had no further need for his services. Aden knew better than to fight Marian on that matter.

Hawke’s first course of action was to secure the docks themselves. With word of mouth circulating that the Viscountess was looking for a Chief-Harbourmaster, Hawke enhanced security around the docks with ready recruits from the newly formed Kirkwall Militia. The militia were very much like the Kirkwall Guard, their armour even going so far as to be deceptively similar. All Varric’s idea of course.

With the militia cracking down on activities conducted around the docks, Marian set out to dismantle Aden’s small but comprehensive network of collectors which cheated Kirkwall of much needed coin. For a small fee – of course – one of Varric’s Coterie contacts aided Marian. It was refreshing work, which had her out on the docks trying _not to_ strong arm information out of potential informants; a needed balance from being cooped up in an office in Hightown. Having the militia was a great help, information was steadily trickling in and Hawke was beginning to paint a picture of who was answering to who. 

When Marian had made a weekly visit to the Keep, Bran had treated her with a somewhat approving smile. Undoubtedly, there had been yet another clandestine meeting between the nobles and Bran whilst she had been cleaning up the filth in the docks. Her work had seemingly impressed someone in Hightown, someone’s interests were undoubtedly being better protected with the changes that she had enacted around the docks. Or so she thought.

There had been some progress in tracking back one of the benefactors in Aden’s little scheme. Pouring through manifest after shipping manifest, Marian had noticed the imposed tax on specific cargo that hailed from Val Chevin in Orlais. The tax was inconsistent with other cargo that came from the same area. But she hadn’t been able to find anything that suggested that a higher tax was warranted on those particular goods.

Eventually, Marian had decided to puzzle over that mystery the next day. Her night would be spent in the Keep, nursing a bottle of whiskey as she tried to keep on top of the waiting workload that seemed to grow and grow by the day. Not for the first time, she wondered just what it was exactly her seneschal was doing, if he wasn’t lightening her workload. So she had left the docks as the day turned to night, the sky full of rich red and purple hues.

And promptly walked into a waiting group of mercenaries.

Originally in effort to stave off the itchy tiredness around her eyes, Hawke had indulged herself in a line or two of lyrium dust. As her assailants darted at her, trying to catch her unaware, Marian was able to keep up with wild movements, a welcome reward for an unhealthy coping mechanism. In combat, the lyrium heightened reactions and movements. She didn’t have to worry about the exhaustion in a fight. Like this, Marian would be able to go for _hours._ The lyrium also amplified Marian’s own internal rage, which turned her reckless. A tendency that she couldn’t exploit when she was clearly outnumbered and inappropriately armoured for a bout in the streets.

Scout’s snarls and fierce barks filled the alley and Marian whipped around, her sword coming up to block a blow that should have ended her life. Not today. Steel met steel with a harsh clang, the vibrations jarring up her sword arm almost painfully. Up close, Marian noticed the finer armour of her opponent and the quality make of his weapon. The Viscountess was intimately familiar with Kirkwall’s underground and the players that dominated each part of Kirkwall. She’d made it her business to know who was who. Outside mercenaries then. 

A punch to the gut broke the temporary stalemate as Marian and her opponent struggled to gain the upper ground. Marian backtracked the way she came, defending each blow and finding openings to strike where they came. Outnumbered as she was and with Scout’s help, Marian was able to fend off her attackers, managing to fell two of her opponents when reinforcements arrived.

Breathing a moment of thanks for the creation of the Kirkwall militia, even with green recruits, Aveline and Donnic had trained them well. Each cut and slash of a sword was damaging and punishing. With Marian’s guidance, the three militia and the Viscountess were able to make quick work of the assailants.

“Do not stop, we need to search them for information.” Marian barked. Only two were still alive, groaning with injuries, which suited Marian just fine. The attack had only confirmed her unvoiced suspicions and the injured mercenaries would be useful in hammering the point she intended to make home. The lyrium-enhanced rage bubbled through her, unable to be spent in the fight.

Pointing at one of the militiamen who had stopped to clean his sword, Marian barked: “have the wounded taken to the Keep. Inform Guard-Captain Aveline that only I am to deal with their release.”

Her request was met with a snappy salute and Marian watched the wounded be restrained before being dragged away. Her remaining militiaman was frisking the corpse of the man who had tried to behead her and when she approached, he too snapped to attention.

Marian really did need to find the coin to give Aveline and Donnic a much-deserved raise.

“See to it that this rabble is cleaned up and any information forwarded to the Guard-Captain and Knight-Commander.” She requested and was answered with another snappy salute. Marian could feel her energy ebbing as she stooped, pulling the helm off of her opponent and staring at the unfamiliar face. Despite the fury that raged within, a sense of clarity enveloped her as she considered her next steps. These mercenaries were waiting for her, these mercenaries knew the route that the Viscountess took to return to Hightown.

This had all originated from some disgruntled peacock holed up in Hightown.

Marian Hawke had never killed discriminately. Nor had she ever killed unless otherwise provoked. But what she considered to be a significant detail to her undeclared code was that Marian Hawke had _never_ taken a token or left her unfortunate opponent in a defaced state. As Viscountess, Marian could not let such an attack slide, it was why she stared at the unfamiliar face and contemplated her response. She couldn’t see any other option than the one before her. 

Marian fingered the hilt of her sword as she reflected on the too long working days, the resistance the nobles. Having her every stepped dogged by spies. Any ordinary person would have succumbed to paranoia and exhaustion or would have splintered apart after such an attack. Marian was not any ordinary person and she no longer could respond as any other would.

Still, as she held the sword over the corpse’s neck, she baulked – if it were a fight, she would have been killed for such hesitation. But this fight wasn’t part of the game that she was accustomed to playing. Fatigue rolled through her, the typical response after an emotionally charged fight.

Marian didn’t think twice as trembling hands fumbled at her belt, drawing out the pouch of lyrium. It had kept the fatigue at bay long enough. Quickly, desperately even she snorted the powder in order to conjure the willpower needed to deliver the blow that went against the code she had instilled upon herself when she had entered Athenril’s smuggling ring. 

Her nose itched and tingled after she was done, accompanied by a rush of strength and power. There was no dignity to what needed to be done, she was no tyrant. There was no pride in what she was about to do. “Forgive me.” She uttered into unhearing ears and raised her sword.

Two thuds of steel meeting unrelenting flesh. The crunch of cartilage and crack of bone and the mercenary leader’s head came clear. Marian took no pride in placing the decapitated head back into the helm. For ease of carrying if anything else.

“Viscountess?” Someone breathed behind her in horror. Marian turned, with the cart had come more of the militia. Men – _her men_ – stared as she stood slowly, the head in hand. Turning to face them fully with careful steps, she looked at their faces, blanched white with shook at what they witnessed. 

“This is not us. We are better than this. This is a warning that I as Viscountess give to those who trifle with Kirkwall. Let this be a warning to you also.” Marian told them with a confidence that she didn’t reflect. Her response was damning silence, but she wouldn’t be judged by these people. Refused to be. 

Head in hand, Marian turned on her heel and marched for the Keep, Scout close on her heels. The Mabari snarled and snapped at any who dared not to move out of their way, sensing an unrelenting turmoil in her mistress. The lower-city residents watched and whispered as their blood-spattered Viscountess marched for Hightown, sword in hand and a helmet in the other. They knew that someone had dared to cross her and had failed, her reputation proceeded herself after all.

Unlike Lowtown, where the residents watched with silent respect, the march through Hightown garnered a different reaction. Silent stares of horror greeted her and Marian met each one with a challenging, even blood-thirsty gleam in her eye.

_What had happened to the Viscountess? Whose helmet does she hold in her hand?_ They questioned. Marian ignored them, not deeming their loud questions worthy to be acknowledged.

Marian Hawke, Viscountess of Kirkwall marched into the Keep, fuelled by exhaustion, anger and lyrium. She halted in the atrium and threw her head back to bellow the seneschal of Kirkwall’s name. Business for the day had already concluded, but there was always a skeleton staff on hand to finish up the last tasks of the day before departing for the evening. When there was no answer from neither the seneschal nor the clerks, Marian roared Bran’s name once more. 

Tremors wracked the Viscountess’s body, the grip on her sword tightened and then Seneschal Bran _finally_ appeared. His face blanched, undoubtedly taking in Marian’s tremoring presence. If she resembled a nightmare, it was because _they_ had pushed her to that point.

“Viscountess…what happened?” Bran queried. The haughty manner was gone, nerves had replaced it and it was _thrilling_. The smallest of victories but it felt like it was one of the greatest. 

“Gather all the noble houses of Kirkwall. I have a matter to address with them personally.” Bran swallowed at the ruthless and hard tone. Marian could _hear_ how Bran’s heart pounded. The man knew that he stood on precarious ground. 

“It is evening Viscountess; I can arrange a meeting first thing in the morning.”

“ _Now._ ” The command was a warning, telling Bran to heed her order without fail.

“I will wait here. Do not waste my time Seneschal. For there is not much of it left.” The eeriness of her words did not lend any assurance to whatever was the matter, nor her appearance. She did not move from her spot, even though tremors had seized her body and did not seem to be relenting.

Bran acted quickly, dispatching hastily scrawled messages – including one to Guard-Captain Aveline. Then Bran returned to the atrium to wait with the Viscountess. The keen gaze of the Viscountess followed every move that Bran made, busying himself under Hawke’s intense gaze as he arranged the furniture into something acceptable for this impromptu meeting.

Marian heard them coming before they could be seen. Raised, angry voices declaring their outrage that the Viscountess of Kirkwall had summoned _them_ and during the dinner hour no less. The broiling rage began to bubble back to the surface within her and the hand that gripped her sword twitched. It would be too easy to simply strike them down. It would be like cutting off a rotting limb, freeing the body of disease and infection. Without them, Kirkwall would suffer financially, to the point of bankruptcy undoubtedly. Without them, Kirkwall would be able to fully heal. 

With that realization came a sudden understanding of the Arishok’s disgust, of his insistence that the city needed to be purged of filth. Their angry steps clattered on the stone that had been washed of the Qunari’s blood. Marian could still see it, could still smell it. The coppery tang that filled the air, somehow prominent over burning stone.

Their voices were getting louder and louder the closer they moved. Their voices echoed through the Keep, noise grating on Marian’s sensitive ears. From the top of the stairs, Marian watched their arrival, apathetic to their plight of being torn from their evening meal.

In a mimicry of the Arishok, Marian Hawke tossed the helmet containing the head of the mercenary leader down the stairs. Now she waited for the inevitable confirmation of their involvement. Undoubtedly these men were also responsible for the incompetent fools that they called spies, tasked to tail her every move.

The helm clattered on the stone, chattering down the stairway. The head of her opponent bounced free of the helmet. The nobles scattering at the sight of the decapitated head, some with horrified screams. Others were truly shocked, hallmarking their innocence, but there were a few that looked up at the Viscountess, wearing masks of revulsion. Their guilt spoke louder than any words of admittance could. 

“As most of you may know, I have been working to improve the conditions of Kirkwall’s docks.” Marian’s voice rang out across the Keep and her gaze was firmly fixed on the people standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Imagine my surprise to find that a few of the people I hoped to help me rebuild Kirkwall were complicit in swindling honest merchants who come to trade in our city in order to boost their own coffers?” Marian went on to ask. None moved, yet Marian had subconsciously marked the culprits. Most had their eyes fixed on the decapitated head, their complexions ashen with shock.

Standing where she was, it was like Marian was reviewing the moment Viscount Dumar’s own head had clattered down the steps, yet she was treated to a different perspective. In the distance, Marian swore she could hear distant screams of terror over the echoing clanging of swords meeting in combat.

With a not-so-subtle shake of her head, Marian continued: “This city struggles to find gold where there is none so it can recover and rebuild. Yet Kirkwall’s _own_ noble houses; houses that the people should be able to look too with _pride_ are cheating them. What is a Viscountess to do? She finishes her work early, intending to attend to other city-state matters.”

Marian could have sworn that the dull roar of an uncontrolled blaze was growing louder, yet there was no woody stink of smoke.

The unwilling audience before her seemed to be distorting before her very eyes and Marian gave a start when she saw _his_ face. Greasy silver hair slicked out of his face, the permanent redness that ringed his eyes and the desperation in his smile: _Quentin._ She didn’t know why the mage was there, Marian had killed him with her own hands four years ago. With a vivid clarity, she could recall how she had used the mage’s own knife to snuff out the man that had so callously destroyed her mother. Yet Quentin stood there, a desperate smirk in place, taunting her.

Anger chorused through Marian, centring her errant thoughts. One step at a time. “And the Viscountess is trying to return to Hightown when she is set upon by mercenaries. That is their leader you see before you.” Shocked gasps echoed her statement and Marian couldn’t help the triumphant, satisfied smile. Quentin was moving through the crowd, that too familiar knife suddenly in hand, coming for _her_. Marian shifted, resisting the very real urge to run and fight or kill and be killed.

“Marian! Marian where are you!?” Frantic eyes darted through the room at her mother’s voice – at hearing the desperation in Leandra’s voice. “Stay away, this man is dangerous – he will kill _you!_ ” Leandra warned and Marian made the mistake of glancing at the head that lay on the stone floor.

The head moved – _shifted_ – morphing into the agonised expression of her mother, white hair cascading around her head like some sort of halo.

The nobles were all but forgotten now, their treachery was irrelevant for the moment. Marian would have to deal with them later, Quentin was the true threat. A dashing wolf who prowled in sheep’s clothing. Leandra let out a blood-curdling howl of pain, her head thrashing on the stone floor. Marian couldn’t move, her feet were rooted to the spot with some magic and internally she struggled to free herself, pushing at latent abilities that she had never been able to truly master.

And suddenly she was free. Quentin was nodding, urging her to retaliate and with an incensed snarl she brandished her sword that was covered in dried blood. The picture shifted suddenly, showing quivering nobles, no sign of Quentin or her mother. It didn’t matter what was truth and what was lie, the message that Marian had was one and the same:

Her declaration echoed through the Keep, terrible and damning: “You think you can hinder me, but you will not. I will kill you for what you have done.” Gasps rippled through the atrium, reminding Marian that not just the Butcher of Lowtown was standing before her, very much _alive_.

And then through it all, came _Aveline_ , in the candle night her red hair gleamed like a flame on its own. _Why was Aveline here?_

“Hawke, what are you doing?” The Guard-Captain demanded. There was worry in her voice. _What did Aveline have to be worried about?_

It didn’t matter, magic engulfed her as Quentin made his move, seeking to snuff _her_ out. Marian couldn’t swim, couldn’t navigate through the rush of magic that sought counter the darkness that threatened to consume her. But she pushed on, she had waded through too much shit to be stopped now.

Quentin wavered. Flickering like a vision in the candlelight.

Marian addressed the nobles, though she kept a firm eye on the mage: “Day after day you clutter the office of Viscountess with demands and needs that cannot be fulfilled. You complain about paying more taxes and I respond by securing our port and reopening Kirkwall for trade. Then you respond by trying to assassinate the Viscountess that _you_ put into office?"

There was a rumble of chatter in response to her questions. Marian didn’t listen, she was through listening. Silencing the response by holding up her sword, she gestured at the large doors of the Keep. “I have no interest in your excuses. Leave now, go.”

Her glare saw the nobles out of the Keep and she searched for Quentin, but he too had vanished. Only her mother’s head lay on the stone, the magic that had animated her gone. Letting out a jagged sigh, she turned on her heel, shoulders slumping.

“Hawke?” Aveline asked tentatively and Marian started, unsure when the Guard-Captain had come up the stairs. “Hawke what happened?”

Hawke didn’t answer as she turned around, only to find that her mother’s head had disappeared, replaced by the man that she had tackled in the alleyway by the docks. Tendrils of darkness still flickered around her, creeping closer and she now glared at them, daring them to approach.

Her voice cracked when she tried to answer her friend and her knees buckled, suddenly unable to bear weight. Marian sunk to the floor as the darkness advanced, those tendrils sneaking closer and closer. She gripped her sword tighter.

“Hawke” Aveline pushed and she looked to the Guard-Captain who was crouched next to her, concerned frown firmly set in place. A gloved hand cautiously rested on her shoulder and Marian flinched. “Tell me what I need to do Hawke.” Aveline pressed and Marian tore her gaze away from shadows that weren’t there before and looked at her friend.

“Nothing,” she let out a defeated sigh. “You don’t need to do anything.” 


	6. Part I: Chapter Five: Verisimilitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply for this chapter.

**Verisimilitude:** _"T_ _he appearance of being true or real."_

_Denerim, 9:37 Dragon_

A sharp knock on the sitting room door interrupted Anora’s musing. Placing her teacup on the table, she smoothed invisible wrinkles from her dress and opened the door. On the other side was Cauthrien, once Loghain’s faithful lieutenant and now, Anora’s window to the happenings in the Ferelden Court. After Loghain’s army disbanded, Cauthrien’s commission had transferred back into the service of the King. Despite riding under the Therin banner, Cauthrien had made a point of visiting Anora and providing her with needed company. Anora would dare say that at some point over the years, the sombre knight had become a close friend.

Soft hands grasped battle-worn ones and Anora leaned into kiss Cauthrien’s cheek in greeting. Ushering her friend inside, Anora surveyed Cauthrien over the rim of her teacup. The sudden visit without notice was unusual, but very welcomed. The Landsmeet festivities combined with her duties to the Crown meant that Cauthrien was too busy for social calls. The last time Anora had seen her friend, it had been at the Landsmeet feast when Cauthrien had stood beside her as an escort. 

“Threnn has been busy.” Cauthrien commented as she slathered a piece of sweet bread with butter. Judging from Cauthrien’s sardonic delivery, it was the kind of busy that gathered attention. Anora opted to busy herself by taking an innocent sip of her tea. Cauthrien took an overenthusiastic bite of her buttered bread and reached for her napkin.

Anora decided to keep the conversation light. “You’ve both been busy, I’ve missed the company.” Anora remarked lightly. Cauthrien shook her head and took a long sip of her tea.

“What news from the palace?” Anora asked with the same light air.

“Things have finally calmed after the Landsmeet, the only gossip that anyone is interested in is who the King is courting.” Cauthrien brow furrowed with distaste. She wasn’t one for noble intrigues like Anora was, yet she suffered for the sake of Anora staying informed. 

“And who is the current pick for favourite?” Anora inquired, her curiosity piqued.

Cauthrien regarded Anora almost suspiciously, as if the knight suspected that Anora already had an inkling of what she was about to say. “Lady Elissa Cousland of Highever. She’s been seen with the King on numerous occasions, considerably more so since the Teryn departed for Highever.” 

Elissa had come calling with the news that she had intended to stay in Denerim for longer and it would be the teryn returning to Highever. What Elissa hadn’t divulged in her visits, which were frequent weekly meetings, was that she was spending more time with the King. An interesting development considering that it had been made clear to Anora that she would have to indirectly push Elissa into the arms of the King. Anora would consider this a practice exercise for what was to come.

“That is interesting news, is this completely unexpected?” Anora pressed. Cauthrien’s gossip confirmed that her efforts hadn’t been wasted at all. Subtle words of encouragement and praise designed to build one’s ego and aspirations hadn’t fallen on entirely deaf ears after all.

Occasionally, Anora wondered if her ingenuity was wasted at the Ferelden court, if she wouldn’t have fared better in Orlais.

Cauthrien stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “Not at all, from what I have seen I would comment that it is a suitable match – the King and Lady are always seen deep in conversation, suggesting that they share common interests. I would even venture to say that the King is _fond_ of Lady Cousland.”

“It would be hard not to be fond of dear Elissa, she is a delight to be around.”

Cauthrien raised a delicate brow. “You are acquainted with Lady Cousland?”

“I haven’t seen her since she was a little girl. I was fortunate to reacquaint myself with Elissa recently.” Cauthrien’s brow seemed to arch higher, this time in disbelief.

“The King noticed your attendance at the Landsmeet feast and he was not impressed. It would be wise not to make your acquaintance with Lady Elissa public.” 

Cauthrien’s comment was innocent in nature, but it irked Anora. “And if the King doesn’t wish me to attend any events hosted by the Crown, then I must be informed directly, not by a knight of the realm.” 

“Come now Anora, petulance doesn’t suit you.” Cauthrien chastised and Anora shook her head dismissively, busying herself with the teapot instead of responding. If Cauthrien thought she was right, she wouldn’t budge on the topic. She had a stubborn streak that rivalled a bulls, it was one of Cauthrien’s qualities that Anora admired so.

But Anora also was stubborn, when she needed to be.

“There were no limits imposed other than I wasn’t to leave the palace district without the King’s permission. This is the first I’ve ever heard that the King is discontented with me attending social gatherings.” Cauthrien softened at Anora’s defence, the knight reaching forward to take Anora’s hand in hers, squeezing her fingers affectionately before withdrawing. 

“Lady Elissa is an accomplished woman, Ferelden would be fortunate to have her as a Queen,” Anora said, changing the subject back to one that better satisfied her curiosities.

Cauthrien’s eyebrow arched once more. Anora smoothly added: “should the King ultimately decide that she is a suitable match, of course.”

“The King is not his brother Anora. If that is what truly concerns you."

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Cauthrien.” Anora replied coyly, a somewhat sad attempt to deflect from the fact that Cauthrien had hit a sore spot. Concerned marred Cauthrien’s pretty features. Cailan would always be a sore spot for Anora, in life, marriage and death. 

Anora had only ever spoken about the true nature of her marriage with King Cailan once – on the fifth anniversary of his death. She loved – _had_ _loved_ – Cailan but as they had grown and matured so too had that love changed with them. As King and Queen, pragmatic affection ruled their relationship and not the passionate, romantic affection that Anora imagined was meant to exist between husband and wife. Cailan’s rejection had forced Anora to confront the subtle shift in their relationship. Anora had returned to Denerim after a trip to Gwaren to visit with her father and arrived to closed doors and the heady sounds of lovemaking.

And with whispers of Cailan’s infidelity came rumours that Anora was barren, furthering Anora’s humiliation.

The infidelity and speculation forced Anora to dedicate her time to salvaging their image to the public even as Cailan pilfered her efforts away. Cailan sought the romance and passion that was so lacking in their marriage and listened to the seductive words of the Orlesian Empress Celene. Anora managed the country, pushing for a better Ferelden. She had failed in her most important duty to the Crown: to produce an heir and it overshadowed her other efforts.

The confirmation of Cailan’s love affair with the Empress Celene had completed Anora’s humiliation. It was only a matter of time until she was discarded and Anora was trapped with no way out.

Anora had lamented to Cauthrien that Cailan had forced her into a lonely position, comparable to the exile that Cailan’s half-brother had demanded in full mere months later. Hearing her story, Cauthrien had pointed out: _The King left you to live your life undisturbed with conditions. He would let you leave – leave_ this, _if you chose. King Cailan never gave you a choice._

“In any case, Elissa is aware of the position that she has unwittingly found herself in and if the King begins to formally pursue her, she will not be left in the dark. I will make sure of it.” Cauthrien’s frown had returned and Anora served more tea for them both. A heavy, yet easy silence fell between the two friends, until Cauthrien broke it.

“Meddling in the King’s affairs is not wise Anora, good intentions aside. If Lady Elissa seeks your council, give it. Don’t get involved.” Accompanying the warning was a gentle chastisement, born as always, out of concern. This wasn’t the first conversation of this kind that Anora had with Cauthrien and like the other times, she chose to ignore it. Nothing would hinder her return to the Ferelden throne. Elissa Cousland was Anora’s return, as indirectly as it was. 

“This is not meddling Cauthrien, but about ensuring that Ferelden’s next Queen does not meet the same degradation that it’s last one did.” Despite her ulterior motive, Anora’s words rung of passionate truth. As beloved as she had been by the people, it hadn’t been enough to appease those that had mattered. Cauthrien regarded Anora, her heavy gaze exposing, yet she didn’t say anything further on the topic and Anora felt some ease at that.

Later when Cauthrien made her farewells, the two women embraced. Anora found herself closing her eyes as the stronger woman held her, relishing the scent of leather and vanilla that was uniquely Cauthrien. She didn’t know how long it would be until Cauthrien’s next visit and as the years passed each farewell seemed to become more and more bittersweet. The Landsmeet feast, though only recent, seemed like Ages ago.

“Be careful Anora, you are not above the King’s notice.” Cauthrien cautioned one last time, her lips delicately grazing Anora’s cheekbone in farewell before departing. Anora watched her go her arms crossed to ward off the uneasy chill that accompanied the wind.

* * * * * * * * * * 

Elissa Cousland finished reading the letter from her brother before setting it aside. She would reply later. With unpleasant weather sending everyone inside, Elissa had retired to the palace’s library in search of something new to read and to answer Fergus’ latest letter. The library was open to all to utilise the knowledge contained within, one of King Alistair’s many changes to the status quo.

After selecting a few interesting titles, Elissa had situated herself in a plush chair with equally plump cushions by one of the comfortable fireplaces. With a full pot of tea on hand, Elissa was prepared to waste away the afternoon in relative comfort, or until the rainstorm had finished – whichever came first.

Penning her response to Fergus, Elissa spent most of her response writing reassuring paragraphs that she had not worn out her welcome nor that she had found herself in any measure of trouble. A short paragraph followed with reassurances that she could care for herself in the capital city of Ferelden. It was also an opportunity to make a point about her capabilities to manage just fine without her _beloved_ elder brother shadowing every move she made. 

An appropriate response to her brother’s sudden overbearingness.

She was rereading her reply, a smirk firmly in place when someone cleared their throat behind her. Elissa turned and stared, not expecting to see the King standing there with a book in hand, having the same idea that Elissa had. 

The King gestured to the vacant seat that sat next to Elissa. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked in greeting. Elissa, remembering where she was and who she was with leapt to her feet and dropped into a hasty courtesy. 

“Your majesty; of course.” King Alistair settled himself into the armchair opposite as Elissa busied herself pouring the King a cup of tea, grateful that a second teacup and saucer had been placed on the tray. Placing the second cup closer towards the King, Elissa tried to resettle herself, without alerting the King to the fact that he had in fact ruffled _her_ feathers.

“I think we should do away with titles when there’s no one else about. You can call me Alistair.” Elissa started at the King’s invitation, not expecting the turn in conversation at all.

“If that is your wish…Alistair. I am, Elissa…if you wish.” 

Alistair smiled at her then, flustering Elissa further. “I would like that very much Elissa.”

Such informality threw Elissa further. In her opinion, she was only the second surviving child of House Cousland of Highever; the younger sister of the Teryn. Elissa, for all her smiles was relevant only because of the last name that she bore. It surprised her that the King – _Alistair_ – had invited her for dinner on numerous occasions and even sought out her company. Fergus surely would have been involved in at least one invitation to dinner due to his absence, but Elissa was finding herself dining with the King and his advisors frequently. 

Elissa remembered what Anora had told her and for a moment, Elissa entertained the idea that perhaps Anora _was_ correct. That the King _was_ pursuing her.

“What plans did the weather disrupt for you?” Elissa inquired trying to breach the awkward silence that she perceived had fallen between the two of them. Alistair tapped his fingers on the hardcover of the book that he had selected.

“Training with the soldiers. A little wet weather never hurt, but this was a bit much.” Alistair replied with a gesture to the windows, where the rain drummed against the glass. As an afterthought, the King added: “Would you care to join us when the weather is fairer? It would probably do the men some good to have a challenge.”

“Oh, I – well…I haven’t picked up a pair of knives since…” She trailed off, unable to voice about the night in Highever where Howe’s forces had butchered everyone in sight. Including her family.

Fergus still encouraged Elissa to step back into the training ring, reminding her constantly that a controlled environment was different to real life. Each time Elissa had tried, she’d freeze as her opponent advanced on her, legs giving out and making her scramble backwards in terror. Elissa didn’t tell her brother of the nights spent tossing and turning in relieved terror as she dreamt of clambering down the tunnel out of the castle. She didn’t share with Fergus how her teeth had chattered in fear and colas as she’d slathered mud over her clothes and through her hair to avoid detection. Elissa didn’t tell Fergus how their mother had bid her to run, promising that her death would buy Elissa the time she needed to get out, to _survive_.

No, she didn’t tell anyone these things, least of all the King of Ferelden.

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry Elissa.” The King’s apology shook Elissa from supressed memories, her hands that sat in her lap trembled. Alistair had likely seen his share of horrors when he had worked with the Warden to defeat the Arch-Demon, the very definition of a nightmare. Elissa was certain that they both struggled with their own experiences.

Elissa swallowed thickly, linking her fingers together and squeezing her palms together until force alone halted the trembling. “You couldn’t have known, there is no need to apologise.”

“If you ever decide to try again, let me know. Having a friendly face on the other side always helps.” The offer was made in such a way that Elissa didn’t have to acknowledge Alistair. Once more Anora’s words and observations return, unbidden and certainly unwanted. 

_A King wouldn’t go out of his way so readily_ , Elissa reasoned finally. Despite the inner debate, Elissa managed a grateful smile as she thanked the King of Ferelden for such a kind promise. 

“I’m certain that you would be able to challenge the soldiers that I train with.” Alistair told her with a rare and brilliant smile. It was devastating to Elissa, only serving to conflict with her thoughts and emotions further. It was little wonder that the other ladies at court sighed over the King. For the first time since they had met, Elissa saw what the other ladies of Ferelden’s court saw: a potential husband. 

And in that same thought Elissa found that she too wished that the King of Ferelden viewed her in a more intimate setting. With a casual wink, the King opened his book and quickly became engrossed with its contents. Elissa was more than happy to return to her own reading, flustered as she was.

As the minutes passed Elissa relaxed fully into her chair. Even so, she found herself infrequently glancing at Alistair over the cover of the book she read. So engrossed in not being detected, Elissa didn’t notice that the King was sneaking glances of his own. 

After rereading the opening paragraph of the new chapter for what seemed like the tenth time, Elissa closed her book with a snap. The afternoon storm continued unabated, but even with the heavy, grey clouds, one could see that the afternoon was quickly transitioning into evening. Anora had arranged an evening at the Denerim theatre as well as dinner, even with the undesirable weather, Elissa was eager to attend the performance. Quietly, Elissa gathered her things, not wanting to disturb the King – _Alistair_ – any more than she already had.

When she went to stand and subtly excuse herself. She was surprised to find Alistair placing his book aside to stand politely.

“I am accompanying a friend to the theatre this evening. I must excuse myself to get ready.” Elissa explained and Alistair inclined his head.

“Enjoy your night and thank you for the company.” He told her flashing that same smile that was quickly beginning to cause her to fluster. Before she could question herself, Elissa reached out and rested her hand on his upper arm. “Thank _you_ , Alistair.” She told him before inclining her head and walking out of the library quickly, hardly daring to believe what she had just done.

Elissa Cousland didn’t see the fond smile on Alistair Therin’s face as he watched her retreating footsteps. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

The King of Ferelden sat at his desk, grumbling at his uncles around a mouthful of smoked cheddar cheese. His uncles had once again ganged up against Alistair, cornering him into discussing things that Alistair had no interest in discussing. Particularly, the topic pertaining to choosing a bride. Much to his advisors’ chagrin, Alistair had become rather adept at dodging the topic. Try as he might, Alistair hadn’t succeeded in changing the topic of conversation to one more pertinent; like running the country. 

Eamon and Teagan seemed determined to not let Alistair distract them. Eamon pushed the point as Alistair chewed on his tasty morsel of cheese: “it has been some months and you have yet to make any type of announcement; or even showed _interest_ to one lady.” He pushed.

Alistair shrugged noncommittedly. “These things take time you know, much like a fine wine.”

“And are you going to stand there and tell that to the bannorn at the next Landsmeet? That you have deemed every lady that has been presented to you as unsuitable?” Teagan asked, heavily implying that if Alistair tried to say such a thing, there would be hell to pay.

Once more, Alistair shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve upset the Bannorn’s delicate sensibilities, nor will it be the last.” Alistair leaned forward and helped himself to a generous portion of nettle wrapped Yarg, spreading it thickly across warmed flat bread. 

“It hasn’t escaped anyone’s notice that you have been spending an indiscriminatory amount of time with Elissa Cousland. The Cousland family has a claim to the throne familial connections alone. We have discussed that she is a choice match for you, though we have some concerns.” Eamon continued as if he hadn’t heard Alistair’s comments. Alistair took a large bite, dropping crumbs all over the desktop. Teagan frowned.

Mercifully, Alistair swallowed his food before speaking.

“And what are the concerns? Is she prowling through the backstreets of Denerim, purging the city of criminals in the dark of the night?” Alistair snorted some at his own joke, one that his two advisors did not understand.

“If she’s been spotted in the Pearl, I have no problem. You meet all kinds of people there, some more useful than others.” Again, another snort of amusement at his own joke. Both of his advisors delivered similar looks of disdain.

“We are concerned because the young lady has been seen in the company of Anora.” Eamon retorted. In response, Alistair promptly stuffed another slice of smoked cheddar into his mouth. If he chewed loudly enough, Alistair reasoned, he wouldn’t hear Teagan’s _I told you so_.

It wouldn’t be the first time nor the last that Anora stirred up trouble in a bid to unseat him from the throne. Whenever she enacted her schemes, Alistair questioned his show of mercy on not having Anora locked out of sight all those years ago. Sparing Anora had been Alistair’s first big disappointing act for the Bannorn. Alistair was determined to do right by his sister-in-law. Even though her schemes inflicted a considerable headache, it wasn’t surprising, Anora had been a competent ruler. Alistair would have been even more concerned if her schemes _hadn’t_ caused a headache. 

Alistair helped himself to considerable hunk of Yarg and moved to stand beside the fireplace as he mulled over this new information. “I have supposed limits on where Anora can go, but not who she can socialise with. Whoever Elissa wants to socialise with is her own business.” He finally commented around his mouthful of Yarg.

“My concern is that Anora is manipulating lady Elissa for her own gain. I have had a – _concerned_ word from a veritable source.” Eamon was not an efficient advisor for nothing, the former Arl of Redcliffe was stringent in ensuring the verification of anything and everything he was told.

That Eamon had come to such a conclusion was not without good reason. His magically fuelled sickness that had left him unconscious and at the mercy of others had taught a hard lesson. Eamon had lost his family to such carelessness. As an advisor, Eamon wouldn’t lose his nephew or King to another such careless mistake. Alistair knew this for a fact. 

“And _if_ Anora is manipulating Elissa for her own gain, it’s likely that she would use Elissa for her claim to the throne and place herself in such a way that she could rule Ferelden by proxy.” Judging by Teagan’s words, there had been a thorough discussion before even approaching Alistair. That was truly concerning.

Alistair began to pace the length of the hearth, considering what he had just learnt.

“So now it’s not marrying to keep the Bannorn happy, it’s marrying to keep Anora’s sticky fingers away from the Crown?” Alistair asked dryly. Eamon nodded, “exactly.” 

“A reminder that Lady Elissa is a complicit victim here, we cannot act hastily here.” Teagan piped up. Eamon frowned at that. Alistair was grateful for Teagan’s point however; Fergus was a mentor and valued friend. Elissa was another story, but a welcomed one at that. He wouldn’t let her be condemned because of Anora’s determination to restore herself to Ferelden’s throne.

“We cannot expose Anora if it means Elissa is condemned. But my hand will still be forced.” Alistair said with a frown as he regarded the cheese plate on his desk regrettably. 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Teagan confirmed, almost regrettably.

Alistair ran a frustrated hand through his hair, not that it would help matters. What had started out as a unwanted conversation had turned dour rather quickly. Turning to Eamon, the two began musing and debating possible ways that would let Alistair out manoeuvre whatever schemes Anora had concocted in order to gain influence over the Ferelden Throne.

Teagan had fallen silent whilst uncle and nephew continued to explore the options before them. Alistair turned to Teagan, intending to get his thoughts on an idea that could likely work in their favour only to find the man rifling through correspondence on his desk. Even with Teagan’s meticulous organisation methods which saw papers divided first by region and then importance, a small pile was made before he found what he was looking for.

Teagan held the paper out to Alistair. “Ferelden and Kirkwall are currently negotiating new trade agreements. The Viscountess herself added a note expressing that Kirkwall does not expect missing apostates to be returned.” Teagan said, interrupting Eamon’s explanation.

Alistair furrowed his brow, wondering why Teagan chose to bring up _Kirkwall_ of all places.

When word reached Ferelden of Marian Hawke’s appointment to Viscountess of Kirkwall in spite of the widespread chaos and destruction, Alistair hadn’t been surprised. The Champion of Kirkwall: who could hold her own in a fight and drink a grown man under the table. A true warrior in her own right, _governing_ a Free Marcher city that was sundered by an unspeakable act of terrorism.

Hawke was not a woman to be forgotten at all. Her dry and acerbic personality was refreshing and Alistair entertained the thought that without duty and politics, they could have been friends. Even though his brief visit to Kirkwall had been three years ago, Alistair clearly remembered how Hawke had voiced her truths. Now she was Viscountess and Alistair wondered what had swayed her to accept the position. Intelligence reports to Denerim in the months after the destruction of Kirkwall’s Chantry suggested that the city-state was susceptible to economic collapse and anarchy. Kirkwall was vulnerable, open to invasion. Yet Hawke had somehow managed to hold on. If the reports were to be believed, a warrior turned ruler couldn’t have won such a fight, yet somehow Kirkwall was recovering. But at what cost to Hawke? 

Brows raised in interest at the sudden change in conversation, Alistair asked: “Is there something wrong with these preliminary negotiations?”

Teagan shook his head, before elaborating: “I received an additional missive from Kirkwall, proposing a political alliance between Ferelden and Kirkwall that would see continued and strong trade agreements.” It was too easy to read between the lines and predict what the premise of the alliance would entail.

“Marry the Viscountess of Kirkwall? That is ridiculous.” Alistair responded, taken aback at the suggestion hailing from Kirkwall. Marian Hawke was not an acquaintance, but he couldn’t imagine her being amenable to this…proposal, let alone suggesting it.

“Is it so ridiculous Alistair? A Ferelden born refugee of the blight, risen from the slums of Kirkwall to defend Kirkwall from invasion first as it’s Champion and then to lead the city forward from ruin as Viscountess?” In another lifetime, Alistair wondered if Eamon shouldn’t have been a poet. The man enjoyed being dramatic when the occasion called for it. 

Usually Alistair would chime in with Eamon’s dramatics, but now he was annoyed. Annoyed with himself for agreeing to appease the bannorn in the first place. Annoyed with his advisor-uncles for pushing the issue. He was annoyed with Anora, who simply couldn’t be content until she had undone the hours of work and dedication to building a better Ferelden – to be the best King he could possibly be.

Teagan broke his ruminating. “Not to mention, a prior relationship with the Viscountess is something that we can address by agreeing to such an alliance.” Alistair scoffed, his ire showing.

“Prior relationship? We weren’t in Kirkwall long enough to spit, let alone form a relationship.” 

Teagan folded his arms and held up a hand to halt Eamon’s inevitable new line of questioning. “I am talking about the relations you had with the Champion of Kirkwall. All it takes is one wandering mouth and we’ll have a scandal.” 

Speechless, Alistair shook his head in disbelief. He should have known that Teagan would have had a close eye kept on him in Kirkwall. Many liked to ignore his prior life before becoming King, forgetting that he almost wore the mantle of a Templar and moved onto wearing the armour of a Grey Warden. They forgot when it was convenient for them, of course.

Alistair had argued many times that he was more than capable of defending himself. Further to that point, he would argue until he was blue in the face that being in the company of the Champion of Kirkwall not only assured his safety; it guaranteed it. But more than that, their exchange was no one else’s business but their own, it was a blip in the day, an event that even Alistair himself hadn’t dwelled on in three years. 

So Alistair deflected. “Scandal? The King of Ferelden having a heavy night of drinking with the Champion of Kirkwall is hardly scandalous.” He scoffed at Teagan.

“I used to do the same in Denerim, until I was stopped.” It was a pointed argument directed at Eamon, who had put a stop to such a practice citing security reasons. Unfortunately, Eamon had generous support in preserving the king’s livelihood. It had been part of the reason why he’d enjoyed his escapade in the slums of Kirkwall.

Eamon saw through Alistair’s deflection in an instant. “I don’t recall you ever seducing anyone in Denerim.” Teagan added as a follow on: “You weren’t exactly discrete.”

The scolding he was receiving reminded Alistair of when he had snuck into the larder one too many times as a boy, an uncomfortable reminder such as it were. He had a vague recollection of how one thing had lead to another, not that it mattered, because it didn’t.

Still, Teagan and Eamon sat there waiting for an explanation with expectant expressions:

“What do you want to know? I approached Hawke because we were worried about the Knight-Commander’s motive with the apostates.” _We drank to much and she came back to my room._

_“_ Hawke was adamant that she couldn’t intervene, despite her position as Champion.” _We tried to take each other’s clothes off as she told me that the Knight-Commander was inflaming mage-templar tensions._

“There was nothing to be discrete about, at all!” _When she kissed me, she tasted like whiskey and smoke._

Teagan and Eamon were not convinced, try as he might to convince them otherwise. Dwelling briefly on the fact that after all this time, his two advisors had finally figured him out; Alistair took one last stab at trying to convince Teagan that he was totally wrong about something that he was totally right about. It gave Alistair a headache just to think about the situational paradox.

“You will recall that the Viscountess was taciturn, if not facetious.” _Hawke told me that she was in trapped in Kirkwall and Ferelden failed her by having to leave her there._

Alistair’s gamble, such as it was failed. Eamon saw that there was much more than what Alistair was choosing to divulge. “Regardless of all that, the Viscountess may well only be the only person who Anora cannot touch, especially if she makes a more defined move to remove you from power.”

A last-ditch effort presented itself and Alistair pounced upon it. “And pray tell, _how_ will a Viscountess of a city-state that started a mage-templar war be able to best the former Queen of Ferelden?”

“Foreign ties. Kirkwall is a major seaport. It gives Ferelden stronger influence in trade through the Free Marches. There is also a prosperous ore mine that can boost Ferelden’s trade as well. For Kirkwall, it is a matter of security. Both parties will see benefits of a political alliance born out of marriage of King and Viscountess.” Teagan was quick to answer, as if waiting for Alistair to ask this question all along.

Eamon was the one who spoke the more convincing words: “Ferelden and Kirkwall would achieve what Orlais failed to do: bring two states together.”

Alistair had never considered a potential union as a passive-aggressive way of telling Orlais to shove it. He was not ashamed to admit that he rather liked the idea of it as well.

Alistair let out a noise of defeat. “Why not just have the Viscountess visit? You can determine her suitability and it’s not like Ferelden can’t negotiate trade in the meanwhile.” When Teagan nodded in agreement with his suggestion, Alistair pushed on: “And the Viscountess’ presence may intimidate Anora into abandoning her plan, whatever it is.”

It was a last attempt to try and maintain some control over the situation, though Alistair knew somehow, that once the Viscountess arrived, she wouldn’t leave Ferelden without being promised to Ferelden as it’s new Queen. 

Fortunately for Alistair, his suggestions were the right ones. If Eamon’s agreeing nod was any confirmation.

“Then I will respond to Kirkwall and arrange for the Viscountess to visit Denerim?” Alistair let out another noise of defeat before giving a reluctant nod of assent. 

“You should write to the Viscountess as well, Alistair.” Eamon said, always the one to follow proper etiquette when it came to such things. Irked, Alistair sat back down at his desk and began to pen a letter to Hawke. The sooner he appeased his uncles in this matter, the sooner he could escape the sudden stifling study.


	7. Part I: Chapter Six: Lítost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.

**Lítost:** An abstract Czech term. The connection of insult to revenge and the desire to strike back at the perceived source of shame. 

_Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon_

_  
_ Word of what had transpired at the Viscountess’ Keep had spread through Kirkwall like wildfire. The fearsome depictions of the Viscountess hurling a decapitated head at Kirkwall’s nobility had drowned out the equally shocking news of an assassination attempt on the Kirkwall ruler’s life. But some people in Kirkwall saw the connection between the threat on the Viscountess’ life and her response. That information was worth valuable coin in the right parts of Darktown.

Yet whilst there was ample opportunity to strike out against the Viscountess and undermine her authority, like many had done to her predecessors, there had been no call to action. It was an opportunity for the Coterie to rid themselves of Marian Hawke, who had been a thorn in their side for years now, once and for all. If the Coterie would make their move, it would be immediately following the events in Lowtown that had unfolded fully in the Viscount’s Keep. It didn’t happen.

Perhaps it had been Hawke’s approval to continue operating throughout Kirkwall. The city needed the Coterie’s connections as much as the Coterie needed Kirkwall to operate. Perhaps it was in the Coterie’s best interests to maintain the Viscountess as the leader of Kirkwall. Or it was because Marian Hawke had reminded the noble houses of Kirkwall of _who_ she was and _what_ she was capable of. Marian Hawke, by tossing the decapitated head of her would-be assailant at the Kirkwall nobility had sent a clear message: everyone in Kirkwall would be held accountable for their misdeeds, no matter how much coin they brought to her. 

It was a message for the Hightown residents that was long overdue.

For many, the visage of a blood-soaked Viscountess with a sword in hand, storming through the dregs of the lower city had incited fear, until it had become clear of her destination: High Town. The fear had dissipated. Marian Hawke was championing for the people of Kirkwall once more.

And the Viscountess herself, who had slouched into the Hanged Man in search of its infamous hangover cure a week and a half later hadn’t anticipated the continued greeting with a loud shout of her name. The call of her name was so loud that Scout joined in for a joyous bay of her own before wandering off after a weary, but approving nod from her mistress.

Varric was waiting for Marian at their customary table, looking as if the cat had swallowed both the canary and the cream. There were two mugs and Varric slid one forward. A careful sip of the contents revealed brandy spiked cider. 

Sometimes Marian wanted to kiss Varric for his ability to read her mind.

“Good _afternoon_ , Hawke.” He smirked.

“Shut it Varric.” She responded crankily.

Varric ignored his friend’s warning, instead continuing to probe: “Merrill told me that you two spent an _interesting_ night together.” Marian was taking a careful sip from her mug, hoping that the mix would help calm her rioting stomach. It was days like this that she missed Anders’ hangover potion, she hadn’t found anything like it since.

Marian lowered her mug to glare at her friend. “Of course Merrill did.”

“And where was my invite? A man has needs you know.” 

Marian snorted at Varric’s dramatics. “I needed someone with a different skillset than what you can provide. Don’t take it personally, it was all business.”

“Merrill said you just had her standing behind you, with a knife and a bleeding hand, trying to look all ‘bloody mage-y’.”

Marian shrugged and took another sip from her mug before answering. “Everyone fears blood mages. And for some reason, some people fear me. I’m not sure why, I’m a people person.”

“Too bad Broody wasn’t here, he’s a people person too.”

Marian mustered the energy to shoot a grin at her friend, though it quickly sobered at the thought of Fenris. Merrill was fearsome when she had mood to be, but it wasn’t in her nature. Fenris however _enjoyed_ the sense of power when someone yielded to intimidation. The lyrium markings were a bonus.

“Have you heard from Fenris? He did promise to write.” Marian attempted to change the subject. Varric wagged a finger at her. “No, no – we’re talking about last night, Hawke.”

“I had some questions for our friends in Hightown. Merrill was playing mum.”

Judging from Varric’s knowing smirk, the dwarf was onto Marian and the fact that she wasn’t divulging the whole truth. Since the incident at the Keep, Marian had been pushing the agenda of weeding out the individuals profiting from inflated import taxes. After a forced day’s rest at Aveline’s and Bodhran’s insistence, Marian had insisted on getting back to work, despite the increasing weariness that settled in her bones and the creeping tendrils of darkness that seemed to be following her around since that night. Her solution was in her increasing use of lyrium dust, ignoring the fact that it not only gave her a boost of desperately needed energy, but kept the creeping darkness away from her.

Despite all this, Marian wasn’t going to let this issue at the docks go. Not when someone had tried to kill her over it. 

Not willing to trust anyone’s recommendation as far as she could spit, Marian had reached out to Sebastian. The Prince of Starkhaven had gone one step further than providing her with the council Marian desperately sought.

With some of the Kirkwall Guard withdrawing from Starkhaven, their return to Kirkwall had been in the company of a more than suitable candidate for the vacate position of Chief-Harbourmaster. A one Melchior Yates. Sebastian had attached a letter that personally vouched for the Ostwick-born man, along with a strong resume. Handing over operations to Yates was easier said than done, with a notable difference in the running of the busy harbour after only a week. 

Yates’ appointment had allowed Marian to focus on following the trail of coin that had started this whole mess in the first place. With a few clerks taking over the brunt of her administrative work, Marian had been able to turn her attention to other matters involving the Kirkwall docks. It had been a working convenience until it became apparent that she would have to straight to the source. _Hightown_.

That was where Merrill had come into her little plan.

With her friend in tow and dressed in nicer robes than usual, Marian had begun to pay a visit to each residency. Etiquette and protocol dictated that front doors weren’t slammed in Marian’s face, but it was her strong words, coupled with Merrill’s hammed up theatrics that helped gather information.

Marian hadn’t shared her plan with Aveline, knowing that the Guard-Captain wouldn’t approve at all and she knew better than to involve Bran. It was only a matter of time until Aveline got wind of what Marian was up too. Merrill’s suggestion that they start at the outskirts of Hightown and work their way to the Keep had been a brilliant one. 

That last night, Marian had finally gotten some information that she would be able to follow up with the Coterie, if they were willing to talk to her that was. But after weeks with only hinderances and no progress, Marian had finally had something worth celebrating. After escorting Merrill back to the alienage, Marian had returned to a desk piled high with correspondence and multiple bottles of whiskey that begged to be drank.

The next morning she had awoken at her desk, eyes hurting in the morning light with a raging headache and nausea roiling like an unchecked storm in her belly. A line of lyrium had helped, allowing her to actually sit up and discover papers had been thrown everywhere and a fireplace full of broken glass. Fenris would have been proud. Bodahn had not been impressed. 

Varric was still looking at her, ever patient, knowing that his friend would eventually cave under his questioning stare. Marian gave in: “Look I cannot neither confirm nor deny that I threatened heads would roll if they didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear.” 

Marian had thought that Varric would have shared her humour at the situation, instead, the dwarf adopted a troubled expression. Was that concern that Marian detected?

“Hawke, you need to be careful.” Varric warned. Marian leaned back in her seat, fingers laced together, contemplating the sudden concern. It wasn’t the first time that Marian had been warned by Varric about something, though Marian would have thought that Varric would have seen why she had done what she had.

The arrival of food distracted Marian before anything more could be said on the topic. Taking a tentative bite of her stew, she was surprised by the pleasant taste. The Hanged Man’s mystery stew had delivered and Marian attacked her bowl with gusto.

“Someone tried to have you killed Hawke and you threw a head at a bunch of nobles and threatened their lives in retaliation. Violence doesn’t beget violence with these people Hawke. They will respond in a way that hurts more than losing a limb.” Varric spoke up. Marian contemplated Varric’s advice as she chewed on her meat, which was more gristle than anything else.

“Maybe a little bit of violence is what they need?” Marian suggested around a mouth full of vegetables.

Varric shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing: “We both know you’re right Hawke. They’re used to calling the shots. It’s why they wanted to get rid of Meredith.” 

Marian gave Varric a deadpan look.

“That and the whole killing every mage in Kirkwall thing.” Varric added hastily. 

Marian continued to stare and Varric amended further: “And the red-lyrium idol turning her bat-shit crazy.”

Varric wasn’t finished though, twirling with his knife on one hand. “These are old, well established families Hawke. They have just as many connections politically as the Coterie does.” Marian opened her mouth to rebut but Varric ploughed on before she could object.

“You’re not used to playing this game Hawke, you’re used to the game where you get results with a fist to the face. It works if you’re a Qunari, but these people are used to jumping on others to stay relevant in the world.” Satisfied now that he had said his piece, Varric pulled his bowl towards him and dug in. Marian waved down the waitstaff for another mug of brandied cider.

The two friends ate in companionable silence, Marian reading between the lines of what Varric could and couldn’t say. Only when she had scraped the dredges of her meal onto her spoon, did she comment. “Want to go have a little chat with the Coterie?”

Blue eyes sparkling with mischief met grey ones. Varric set his spoon aside, whipping his mouth with his napkin and placed it neatly beside his emptied bowl. 

“Why Hawke, I thought you would never ask.”

  
* * * * * * * * * * 

Shut away in her office, Marian looked at the unorganized mess on her desk. She made an annoyed, frustrated noise and ran a hand through greasy hair. The mountain of unfinished tasks and unanswered correspondence never seemed to diminish. It was exhausting just looking at the never-ending load of papers.

Whilst it was a refreshing change to not have people constantly interrupting her in her work, Marian wasn’t going to get any work done simply by staring at it. Bran had yet to charge in either and talk down at her for prioritising one issue over another. It was unusual enough that it only made Marian dread the eventual meeting with the Kirkwall seneschal. For the moment at least, she would relish the relative peace and quiet. 

First, she started by pouring herself a dram of whiskey. Always a good start.

Then, Marian decided that she would tackle the pile of correspondence. Letters were sorted first by their location of origin and then by importance; one of Bran’s implementations before he had given up on Marian fulfilling his expectations as Viscountess of Kirkwall. Marian went chose the pile from Kirkwall’s neighbours; it was the smallest after all.

She took a long sip of her whiskey, savouring the familiar burn on the back of her throat. 

The Free Marches state leaders were a cantankerous lot. Despite the confederacy that arguably united the city-states together, they always were prone to arguing amongst themselves. Kirkwall had somehow managed to maintain somewhat cordial relations with her neighbours. Cordial relations that had soured as domestic troubles plagued Kirkwall. Reforging good relations with Kirkwall’s neighbours was an exercise in patience and futility for Marian. None wanted to deal with the woman that had aided a terrorist at the end of the day. It was an upwards battle, but somehow, Marian had managed to strike conversation with the Teryn of Ostwick and Duke of Wycome.

Marian struggled just to convince the Teryn that she had good intentions, that she wanted to restore friendly relations with Ostwick. The city was beginning to feel the shockwaves of Anders’ deeds. With the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, so too had Anders’ philosophies on mage rights and freedoms. In Ostwick however, it wasn’t the mages _or_ the templars that caused such tensions, but the call to action by Ostwick’s non-mage citizens. Such demands placed undue pressure on the Ostwick Templar Order to act on imagined fears. Initially, the Teryn had rejected Marian’s cautious advice, which had been offered in the hopes that a combined effort between city and templars meant that the fall of another Circle was avoided. With Varric tempering Marian’s blunt words of advice, with his writing flair, eventually the Teryn had begun to heed Marian’s suggestions. Now, Teryn and Viscountess shared news and offered advice for the other when it was called for.

In Ostwick’s case, the battle was hard fought and well won.

Where Marian had fought to win over Ostwick, Wycome welcomed Marian with open arms.

Marian had expected to be met with either mistrust – like Ostwick; dismissal – like Markham; or to be ignored completely – like Tantervale. Wycome had congratulated Marian’s appointment, sending a cask of Antivan wine that would have impressed even Fenris’ refined tastes. The show of goodwill continued with Wycome being the second Free Marcher state to return to Kirkwall to trade at Marian’s invitation, after Starkhaven of course.

Perhaps Marian had become overly paranoid, but Wycome’s Duke Antoine wasn’t a friend of Kirkwall. When Wycome came calling for favours, Kirkwall would have to tread carefully. 

After penning her responses to the Duke and Teryn respectively, Marian set the letters aside for Varric’s approval before sending them off. Turning her attention to the last envelope, it bore the seal of the Vael family and the thickness of its contents was unusual. The penmanship on the envelope was more than familiar – the letter was from Sebastian, which only made her furrow her brow in confusion. Slitting open the envelope with a small knife, Marian pulled out a few pages and began to read.

The opening sentences set the tone for the remainder of the letter. Marian finished her drink and then hastily poured a second.

With her drink in hand, Marian continued reading.

In all the years of knowing Sebastian Vael, Marian had never known the Starkhaven Prince to become flustered without some prompting on her part. Yet as she read his letter, the impression she formed was that Sebastian was flustered. It wasn’t a letter about matters of state, but a personal one: from Sebastian _to_ Marian. Finishing her whiskey, Marian poured another immediately. 

Sebastian Vael was a happy accident. Marian was gathering coin for the Deep Roads expedition and the then Chantry brother had needed able bodies to deal with a mercenary company. One moment Marian Hawke had been in a tooth shattering sword fight on the Wounded Coast and the next, she was resisting the allure of a desire demon. The idea of a Chantry brother insistent on avenging his family’s brutal murders was so poetic that she and Varric agreed to help out of sheer curiosity.

With the compelling story that fuelled Varric’s fictional endeavours, Marian had found the heir apparent of Starkhaven torn between his duty and his faith. They were opposites; Marian threw a punch and asked questions later; Sebastian considered every option available to him carefully. A tenuous friendship began. She pushed Sebastian out of his comfort zone. He became the tender anchor against Marian’s inner turmoil that pushed and pulled her every which way. Their mornings were spent on the roads surrounding Kirkwall, hunting spiders or riff raff. Their afternoons, together in the Chantry courtyard or in the gardens, heads bent towards one another as Sebastian challenged Marian’s thoughts and beliefs. Eventually, stolen evenings where they sat together and looked up at the night sky and dwelled on the unknown. 

Marian Hawke put the letter down on the desk and leant back in her chair, exhaling sharply. Sebastian’s letter had contained admissions that she had once daydreamed he would say to her but reading them now; reading what she’d wanted to hear him say felt too little too late. Sebastian had never made a promise that he wouldn’t fulfil. A trembling hand grabbed the whiskey bottle.

 _I will give you nothing less than a prince, Hawke_. He had promised her on that rainy day, the sun fighting through the heavy rainclouds.

Marian had gotten caught in the drizzle of rain on her way to the Chantry. Sebastian had looked at her, something unfamiliar in his gaze when she had arrived. That day, it was Sebastian who had closed the careful distance that he always maintained. His hand had reached up to cup her cheek, the pad of his thumb drifting over her nose and down, caressing her lips. Sebastian had forgotten himself when he’d brushed tendrils of Marian’s hair out of her face, damp from rain. That was when he had made that promise to her.

And now, the Prince of Starkhaven had offered her that promise. He would pledge himself to her under the watchful gaze of the Maker, with Andraste’s blessing and she would pledge herself to him. Sebastian Vael had asked her for her hand in marriage.

Marian stared at the wall, her hand clenching her glass of drink as if it were a lifeline – to remind herself of where she was.

There had been no reason for marriage in order to bring Kirkwall and Starkhaven together. Their alliance bolstered the other, a strong alliance that would not falter easily in the future. Sebastian knew how Marian liked to think, could anticipate how she would react and the same was true for Marian when it came to Sebastian. Whatever her answer, Sebastian had promised it wouldn’t jeopardise what they had worked so hard to achieve – not only for Kirkwall and Starkhaven, but for themselves. Marian didn’t doubt that promise at all.

Yet with her answer in mind, pulling a fresh sheet of paper and began to put ink to paper, tears clouded her vision, pooling in the corner of her eyes so that she swiped angrily at them. She wrote and wrote, the one final admission of her true thoughts and feelings which she always kept so carefully guarded. Yet when she finished, she stared at what she had written, the thick lines where she had crossed out words and sentences, the blots of ink where her tears had run on the paper.

Marian promptly tore the papers, sprinkling the pieces onto the fire. They weren’t words she would risk someone reading, gaining an intimate view into her innermost thoughts. No, she would have to say these things to Sebastian when she saw him next, he deserved to hear them since she refused to have them outlined on paper.

Drawing a blank sheet of paper, Marian Hawke wrote her response to Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. She signed and sealed the envelope, not with the Kirkwall insignia, but the Hawke crest and placed it in the box for outgoing letters.

Topping up her cup with whiskey, Marian resumed staring at the wall with eyes swollen and red with tears, the rest of her work sitting in front of her, forgotten. 

  
* * * * * * * * * *  


Marian stood overlooking the Bone Pit, ignoring the sand that stung as it blew against her legs. She watched on as Varric led the tour of potential investors to the mine, a frown on her face as she considered them. With the current tensions amidst the Viscountess office, a very real concern was that undesirables would forgo targeting Marian directly and instead strive to seize her assets. The estate, Marian couldn’t care less for. Without her mother, as painful as it was to admit – the mansion was nothing more than an empty building which she slept in. The Bone Pit, which was helping to stimulate Kirkwall’s economy and providing a modest, consistent income for its workers was a whole other kettle of fish. 

Varric had come up with a tenable solution; to have foreign investors buy into the mine itself. Whilst Hubert had signed the Bone Pit to a Marian Hawke and not the city of Kirkwall, Marian and Varric had bolstered business with the mine using city resources. Varric’s explanation had gone over Marian’s head, but the dwarf was a shrewd businessman. If Varric was confident this was the right action to take in order to protect the mine, then Marian would follow his advice. There was a reason why Marian had entrusted Kirkwall’s finances into Varric’s care, as well as her own.

They had planned this meeting carefully, the mine’s reputation and poor management prior to a Hawke takeover hadn’t exactly primed it to be an easy sell. Varric would host the tour, ever the smooth businessman that he was. Marian would swoop in at the end to assure the potential buyers that there were absolutely _no_ dragons.

Varric was focused on the sell and didn’t want Marian to open her mouth out of turn. That was more than fine with Marian, but his reasons had made more sense when the dwarf had revealed that the interested parties hailed from Orlais and Antiva. 

So there she stood, watching the carts of coal come up from the depths, unable to help the metaphorical pat on the back for a job well done. The mine had been a mess and virtually unworkable. Clearing out a dragon carcass had been a task and a half. It required bodies and no one had wanted to venture in the mine after hearing about the charred bodies of poor souls who had tried to breach its depths.

But desperation was a keen motivator when times were tough and it hadn’t been hard for the Champion of Kirkwall to sell jobs; to sell a dependable income. Marian had found a dozen or so people who were desperate enough to brave superstition and rumour. They’d placed their faith in the Champion of Kirkwall and had cleared out the debris that cluttered the tunnel entrances and repaired the rails that transported the cargo carts. 

When weeks passed and the death toll had remained at zero, more people began to approach Marian in Darktown, pleading for work.

Varric and his little group disappeared into the mine itself and Marian picked her way down the steep path, folding up the collar of her coat to help protect her against the blowing sand. Scout stayed close by her side, disliking the sand as much as her mistress did.

In the small valley where the mine was situated, the wind was tamed and one could hear the rhythmic clanking of carts and shouts of the workers. A frequent sight around the Bone Pit, workers called out their welcomes to the Viscountess when she was spotted. Finding a out of the way spot that was sheltered from the blustery wind, Marian sat on a rock and watched Scout snuffling about.

Luckily, Marian didn’t have to wait long. Varric and their guests remerged from the mine and from what she could see, prospects were good. The dwarf sighted Marian and gave her a big wave in greeting and Marian stood from where she had been perched. With him were two Orlesians and an Antivan. Scout gave an excited whine beside her and Marian looked down at the Mabari, brow furrowed.

The Mabari was familiar enough with Varric that she greeted the dwarf with affectionate nudges with her nose until she was indulged with an ear scratch or three. Scout recognised someone in the party, which was impossible, since Varric had made a point to advertise the Bone Pit _outside_ of the Free Marches. Marian casually rested a hand on the hilt of her sword and commanded Scout to stay.

“Viscountess!” Varric called in greeting. Scout whined again, the stump of a tail wriggling with excitement.

Introductions were made by Varric, always the graceful host. Marian scrutinised their guests as best she could whilst engaging in small talk. Their Orlesian guests were full of praise for the work that had been put into improving the mine, but Marian knew Orlesian custom well enough to know that the praises were only out of politeness. They would air their issues to Varric in a more private setting and expect an immediate response should they choose to invest. 

The Antivan, a representative of a Lord Renalto Alvarez met Marian’s gaze before giving Marian a low bow. Marian always remembered faces better than names and she couldn’t quite put her finger on where she knew this man. There was something familiar about him. Scout let out another excited whine, which all but confirmed that this representative wasn’t who he claimed himself to be. Marian left her hand on the hilt of her sword. 

The Orlesians dominated the conversation, peppering Marian with questions about the initial acquisition, the rumours of a dragon – _yes, there was a dragon here_ – and other improvements that had been made. Varric steered the conversation with carefully prompted questions for their visitors.

“An important note that my lord will want to know: is the mine owned by Kirkwall?” The lilting accent was unmistakable, so too was the pleasing tenor voice. No wonder Scout was wriggling with contained excitement. Marian knew few Antivans, but only one had drastically stood out to her, leaving a lasting impression: Zevran Araini. His eyes twinkled as Marian frowned with recognition.

Zevran had changed his appearance; light hair was now dark – _a wig? –_ the facial tattoos that marked him an Antivan Crow were clearly concealed with makeup. Simple changes they had been, but highly effective. Without Scout, Marian wouldn’t have known better. Perhaps an over-excited Mabari did have its perks after all. 

“The Maharian mine was signed to me whilst I was the Champion of Kirkwall. This mine is an important resource, which is why I’m seeking additional investors.” The practiced response came easily. Varric’s crafted answer seemed to sit well with the two Orlesians. Varric smoothly suggested they return to Kirkwall to review Marian’s proposal at Marian’s signal. 

Zevran’s appearance meant that Marian accompanied her guests back to Varric’s manor for a well-earned meal and the continuation of discussions regarding the mine. Originally, she had planned to dine with the group only. Antivan assassins always did put a spanner in the works and it wasn’t as welcome as they seemed to think it was.

Marian excused herself when at Hawke estate, detouring to don more appropriate garb for the occasion. Also, to conceal more knives on her person. Dining with an Antivan assassin would likely end in someone’s throat getting cut and Marian didn’t plan on it being hers.

In fact when Marian showed herself inside Varric’s manor, she found Zevran waiting for her in the minimally decorated foyer. To her left, where she knew the dining room to be, she could her the clink of glass and Varric’s deep chuckles over the murmur of conversation. Accompanying the sounds came the smell of something delicious wafting through the manor. Her belly rumbled in sudden hunger, reminding Marian that she hadn’t eaten at all that day.

Scout was still waiting for her mistress’s permission to greet Zevran. With a murmur of assent, Scout finally raced up to Zevran who stooped to greet the hound with exclamations in Antivan.

 _Incorrigible flirts the lot of them_ , Marian grumbled to herself when Scout looked adoringly at the Antivan elf.

As if sensing her disgruntlement, Zevran turned his attention to Marian, flashing a flirtatious smile. “And you, the Champion turned Viscountess. A true diamond in the rough.” A hand rested on her below. Marian shrugged off the touch in such a way that anyone but Zevran would have been offended.

“What are you doing here Zevran?” Marian asked, crossing her arms tightly with a frown.

“Can’t a humble man, like myself simply bask in the glow of fiercely beautiful woman?” Marian shook her head at Zevran’s question, exasperated, which only made the Antivan’s smile wider.

“Not when I have business to conduct and an assassin in close proximity.”

Zevran waved a hand dismissively. “You are fortunate then that I value not only yourself, but our mutual friends Viscountess.”

Marian’s hand twitched. It was overly tempting to form a first and sucker punch the Antivan elf, yet she didn’t. Marian should have tipped off the militia, but she hadn’t. It was turning out to be a tragic lack of foresight on her part for not running the assassin through with her sword in the first place.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Marian tried again. “What are you doing here Zevran?” 

“Even with your womanly charms, you have become an unsavoury figure in your current position of power. The client would see you eliminated.” Zevran winked. “Unlucky for them that this particular assassin has taken a liking to such a dangerous woman as yourself.”

Marian wondered if she should be insulted or flattered.

“Ah so it’s a dog eat dog situation. How much coin is my life worth to you exactly?” Marian asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She wasn’t prepared to give the assassin a single copper, it was merely a ploy to try and leech more information.

“It is fortunate that this contract fell to my hands and not someone more…unsavoury.”

Marian scoffed at Zevran’s vague answer. “Are you telling me this so I’ll sleep with you? It didn’t work then and it won’t work now.” Zevran let out a deep and throaty laugh. The assassin was truly amused by Marian’s cutting response.

“Those mercenaries were sent after you, no? It was to scare you. Though I am unsurprised that you were able to best them.” Zevran finally answered seriously, humour gone.

Marian’s not so careful probing revealed little information that would be useful, yet Zevran saw fit to confirm what she already knew. A headache was slowly beginning to form at the front of her skull. Was it too early for a stiff drink? 

Instead, Marian changed the subject: “I take it that you successfully eluded the Crows then?” It had only been a year since they had crossed paths, with Zevran on the lamb from his superiors. Obviously, he had succeeded in whatever it was he was trying to do, or they wouldn’t have been having this conversation. 

“Without your particular skillset, I’m sure Nuncio would have handed me over for a decent sum of gold.” Zevran told her cheerfully. Marian shrugged, not in the mood to play Zevran’s little game.

“If you’re planning to come after me and mine, I will not hesitate to kill you. I don’t particularly want to, but I will.” Zevran chuckled at Marian’s threat. Marian rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“We are friends, no? Consider this a concerned visit by an unimportant friend.” 

Marian crooked her head towards the hall, indicating that their continued absence would draw attention. “We’ll talk later.” She told the elf and Zevran inclined his head in agreement.

“I may have a favour to ask you, I’m sure we can arrange payment.”

“How delightful, I look forward to such intrigues, _Viscountess_.”

The two made for the dining room to re-join their fellows. Zevran’s hand tried to slither around Marian’s waist and she slapped at his hand. Zevran would not be undeterred, leaning closer so he could murmur.

“My fees are straightforward Viscountess, would you rather I whisper it into your ear? Or perhaps you could shackle me to your bedpost and I can show you what it is I desire?”

Marian pointedly ignored the Antivan’s attempts to bed her for the remainder of the evening.

  
  
* * * * * * * * * * 

  
Bran was waiting for Marian when she arrived at the Keep the next day, stifling a yawn and eyes itching with tiredness. The seneschal stood at attention at his desk, waiting for Marian to pass on her way to her office.

After concluding the business with the Orlesian investors, a different round of business had begun. Zevran, in-between a stream of flirtatious comments, directed at both Marian _and_ Varric had continued to abstractly outline the position that Marian was in. Varric had only ever heard tales of Isabela’s old-friend second hand, though Marian wasn’t surprised that the dwarf and elf got along like a house on fire.

The only downside was that it proved challenging to keep the serious conversation flowing. 

When the elf had finally left, slipping easily into the shadows, Marian had found there was little point in returning to her own bed. Zevran’s news, ambiguous as it was, had left an uneasy, foreboding feeling in Marian’s gut. There was something else coming and Marian had no way to anticipate it. Zevran’s knowing smirk suggested that he had an inkling, making Marian want to throttle him even more for simply not _telling_ her.

Ignoring Bran, Marian slouched past the seneschal and for her office, intending to stare at the work pending on her desk until she fully awoke.

The sound double doors closing brought Marian out of her musings. Bran approached the desk of the Viscountess and delicately placed two envelopes in front of her. One bore the stamp of Ferelden and the other, the device of Kirkwall. Bran stood silently, fingers linked together in front of him, waiting for a reaction. Marian stared at the two envelopes.

“What is this?” Marian finally asked wearily. 

“It’s from the King of Ferelden, formally offering an alliance with Kirkwall by way of marriage.” Marian blinked at Bran’s words, how many missives from countries and states alike bypassed the desk of the Viscountess daily? Often a letter was placed before her, just needing her signature. Marian would read and sign, before going to the next. She hadn’t read anything of that nature and from Ferelden especially. 

Marian had reached out to Ferelden, including what she had hoped was an amusing anecdote that would inspire negotiations between her country of birth and the city she governed. But this, this was someone else’s idea and Bran had the accessibility and means to make it happen. Her head pounded and her gut ached with revulsion. Bran had been told to find a way to deal with Marian and he had clearly found it. Stringing Marian along as he’d carefully set his trap. Marian was fuming, angry thoughts racing through her mind as she reached out and took the opened letter from Ferelden.

“This is disappointing, seneschal. It has _my name_ as the recipient.” Marian commented languidly, even though she was seething inside. She was biting back the urge to simply lean forward and wipe the neutral expression from Bran’s smug face. 

Turning her attention to the correspondence within, Marian read, each sentence sitting heavily on her shoulders. On paper, it was a cordial invitation for the Viscountess of Kirkwall to attend the Ferelden court and discuss matters further with the King.

One thing that Marian had had to learn quickly when she had stepped into the office of Viscountess was reading between the lines. The King of Ferelden had no need to handle a simple trade agreement. As soon as a party came to the table willing to negotiate, it would be passed on to people more suited to bartering. The signature of the King would make the terms official. At some point, the correspondence from whoever who had forged her signature had crossed the King of Ferelden’s desk. Alistair Therin had considered this ridiculous notion.

Placing the letter from Ferelden aside, Marian picked up the envelope stamped with Kirkwall’s heraldry. She pinched the corner between thumb and forefinger as if the contents would burn her hand. It was with a sense of dread that she began to read the response and everything fell into place. Seeing her forged signature at the bottom, she dropped the missive with disgust.

Bran was still demurely waiting for a response.

Marian linked her fingers together, exuding a sense of calm that she did not feel.

“Gaining alliances through marriage now? Kirkwall needs Ferelden support, but this is excessive. Who will you marry off once you’re through with me to gain Orlesian support? My sister is a Grey Warden and my cousin Charade isn’t a woman who would please an Orlesian Marquis.” It was a valid point, Ferelden still had a tenuous relationship with Orlais, any strong connection would be a sore point in any negotiation with the flamboyant empire.

Bran levelled her with a hard gaze and leaned forward, fingertips resting lightly on her desktop.

“You have no choice in this Hawke, you will go to Ferelden and accept Ferelden’s offer of an alliance through marriage to the King of Ferelden.” His voice was as hard as his gaze, designed to intimidate and supplicate.

Marian would not back down, nor would she reveal to her duplicitous seneschal the building rage. It was sheer willpower that kept Marian leaping from her seat and throttling the man for his actions.

“I will, will I?” The venom in Marian’s voice could have cracked stone. The haughty pose that the seneschal had adopted abruptly changed, a small victory in the scheme of things.

“And what if I told you that I recently received a proposal from the Prince of Starkhaven? That I was considering accepting?” Bran started at her question. Marian was relieved to see that this piece of information was new, that whoever had engineered this coup hadn’t been aware of the depth and extent of the relationship that she shared with Sebastian Vael.

“Kirkwall has the support of Starkhaven, you assured yourself of the Prince’s unwavering support. Considering the signed agreements that have been made, you can and will accept Ferelden’s offer.” Bran had regained some of the momentum that he had lost when Marian had revealed Sebastian’s proposal. “This alliance with Ferelden has been decided to be the best move for Kirkwall.”

Before she could check herself, Marian stood, slamming her fists into the desk so hard that they both heard the crack of wood and bone. Bran took a step back.

“Has been decided? For Kirkwall?” Marian questioned, her voice crackling from rage. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Marian knew who had put Bran up to this, who had so cleverly manipulated the situation that was playing out before her. Zevran had done his best to warn her, but it wasn’t enough. She should have killed them all like she had promised that day in the Keep rather than let them lie idle and plan their revenge like they had.

“Everything I have _ever_ done is for the good of this city. I intervened where the Arishok would have killed you all. I fought a tyrant who would destroy anyone who possessed a lick of magic. I spend my days and nights trying to find a way forward to build this city back to its supposed former glory and you dare say to me that this _farce_ is in the best interests of Kirkwall?” Bran took another step backwards and Marian advanced after the seneschal.

Her heart was racing, tears threatened to spill and Marian took deep, shuddering breaths.

Bran swallowed his fear once again to rebut. “No one questions your commitment, only your ability to govern.” Marian couldn’t believe the audacity of such a statement.

“My ability to govern would not be compromised if I was simply left to do _my job_ and not have to pander to the whims of those who only serve their own interests.” She seethed, Bran was almost at the door now and she would be damned if he quit the room verbally unscathed.

“We are aware of your increasing use of lyrium.” Bran’s comment was condemning and in that moment; Marian was certain that if she so wished, she could reach out and snap the seneschal’s neck and feel no remorse. Just like she could raise her sword and rid Kirkwall of its groomed nobles who whined and demanded until the Viscountess was forced to pander to their desires. 

“If you thought that you were discreet, you were quite wrong. The blatant use of an illegal substance and alcoholism is not something the office of Viscount champions.” These were excuses that veiled the true reasoning for this move. Disbelief had Marian shaking her head. 

“Choose your next words carefully, seneschal.” Marian warned her voice hollow of emotion.

“I have also been instructed to inform you that if you do not accept Ferelden’s proposal, you will be stripped of your titles and surrendered to the Templar Order as a deserter.” Bran’s voice wavered. One could hear the latent fear, the seneschal of Kirkwall was _afraid_ of the Viscountess, of what she might do. As the gravity of the ultimatum settled on her shoulders – another burden – Hawke had to lean against her desk, lest she fall over. Nothing she had done had been good enough, her efforts had been for naught. Kirkwall had beaten her, ruined her.

Silence, thick and heavy filled the room. It was broken only when Marian moved for her desk, with slow and lethargic movements of someone who had aged decades in seconds. Bran watched her warily, waiting for her to inevitably lash out at him. Instead, the ruined Viscountess of Kirkwall pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. She poured a finger in each glass, shoving one glass across the desk to Bran, waiting until he approached and hesitantly picked up the glass.

Her hand had been forced here, but there was still another round to play. She would remain complicit for now and then strike, making them regret her appointment even more. Holding her glass into the air, Marian Hawke – Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall finally succumbed to the demands of its nobility:

“For King and country.” She toasted, draining her glass in one.

**End of Part I**


	8. Part II: Chapter Seven: Rapprochement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.
> 
> And onwards into Part II!

**Rapprochement:** Pertaining to international affairs; an establishment or resumption of harmonious relations. 

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

The day was shaping up to be a fine one, if cold when the messenger arrived as breakfast was being served. The Viscountess of Kirkwall had arrived in Ferelden and was a few hours journey from Denerim. The messenger’s arrival had put the palace into a frenzy, though Alistair personally couldn’t see why. Rumours had raced through higher society when the palace announced the Viscountess’s visit, some whispering that her visit would result in an announcement of marriage.

Alistair not-so-kindly delegated any inquiries relating to the Viscountess’s visit to Teagan – he was Ferelden’s foreign ambassador after all. First Day celebrations combined with the Kirkwall Viscountess’s arrival meant that it would be a busier than normal week in Denerim. 

Eamon was the first to catch up with Alistair after the messenger’s arrival. Eamon opened his mouth to make some comment, but Alistair beat him to the punch. “I want to meet with Viscountess Hawke before she is officially presented.”

The King’s advisor frowned, though he acquiesced to Alistair’s request with a terse nod. Alistair had expected a rebuttal, though when it didn’t come, Alistair amended his original request so that it would satisfy some etiquette rule that was undoubtedly being broken: “Only those who are necessary. That would be yourself and Teagan. Fergus, perhaps?” 

Eamon nodded again, seemingly satisfied with Alistair’s compromise. “Where would you receive the Viscountess?” He queried. 

“We’ll meet in the library, have some refreshments ready.” Alistair answered immediately. Eamon excused himself, leaving Alistair to finish his breakfast alone. Something that he was grateful for. 

Up until that day, Alistair had been able to ignore the very real possibility that the Viscountess of Kirkwall could very well end up as his wife before the year was underway. Certainly the more outrageous gossipers had already speculated this, even if the gossips had dismissed the notion as quickly as it had been entertained. Alistair had followed the adage of out of sight, out of mind. It was easier to not think of what was likely versus unlikely. But now, he was forced too.

Finishing his breakfast, Alistair dressed in something more formal than usual. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference to his guest and pompous displays were insignificant in the scheme of things. _Eamon at least, would be happy_ , Alistair considered as he buttoned his vest and pulled on leather boots that had been polished to a shine. To tidy his hair, Alistair ran damp fingers from the wash basin through his hair, leaving his quarters before he could question his appearance and life choices further. 

After that, he sequestered himself in his study, refusing any visitors. Including Eamon and Teagan. With the new year and First Day celebrations, there was little work to attend to. Alistair found a temporary distraction in responding to well wishes for a fortuitous year from members of the bannorn. Some time was spent responding to such wishes with cordial notes, echoing likewise sentiments. But that task too was exhausted to quickly and Alistair soon found himself sitting idly. With the same nervous energy that had Alistair fishing for tasks, that made him head for the library, where he would simply have to wait for the Kirkwall delegation’s arrival.

In the library, Alistair weaved his way amongst the bookshelves, pacing the length and width of the extensively stocked library, then plucking a random book from the shelf and sitting down. Alistair tried to read to distract himself, even as he dwelled on the Viscountess of Kirkwall.

Marian Hawke had left quite the impression on the new King of Ferelden. Despite their short-lived meeting, Alistair easily recalled the indignant gleam in sky-blue eyes when the then Champion of Kirkwall had realized who Alistair was. She had taken it in her stride, acknowledging Alistair’s kingship with a refreshing sarcastic display of her own. Marian Hawke hadn’t seemingly cared who Alistair was, only what he was up to in Kirkwall.

_Ferelden is my home, but Kirkwall is my prison._ Her words weren’t a statement, but a plea for help. Even now, Alistair didn’t quite understand why she had said that to him. Alistair had considered ordering Marian Hawke to return to Ferelden. Just as quickly as the thought had occurred to him, Alistair had dismissed it. If he had uttered those words and insisted she return to Ferelden, Alistair would have left behind an even bigger mess than what he’d started with. If Marian Hawke had been of a peerage where Alistair could reasonably order a return to Denerim was one thing, but Hawke wasn’t. Her titles and standing existed because of Kirkwall, he would be no help to her. Instead, he’d had to make do with reports from the Ferelden agents stationed in Kirkwall. And what they reported was something that could be considered nothing less than extraordinary for a woman who’s first response to any situation was to pull a knife on a stranger.

It was a surreal moment to consider that this woman was likely going to become his wife and step into the role of Ferelden’s queen.

A serving maid approached with a laden tray. On it was assorted cold cuts and cheese, bread and assorted fruits. To drink, there was ale and barley water. Eamon and Teagan were following the serving-maid and Alistair closed his book, giving up on trying to distract himself. 

Thankfully a herald appeared and announced: _Marian Hawke, Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall_.

Alistair stood hurriedly, brushing invisible crumbs and pulling wrinkles from his vest. Looking to Teagan, his worries betraying him, only to receive an encouraging nod in response. Then came the sound of multiple, muffled footsteps on carpet. Ferelden soldiers entered ahead, a confusing sight for a Kirkwall delegation. But then Alistair Therin set sight on Viscountess Marian Hawke for the first time in four years.

Whiskey gold eyes met sky-blue eyes and Alistair frowned, not knowing what to make of the waif of a woman that was standing before him. He saw the black that ringed the Viscountess’s eyes, her hollowed out cheeks and the rolled hunch of her shoulders. Her hair had grown longer, brushing the tops of her shoulders now, when it had once been cropped short. Then Alistair noticed how the fine robe she wore was cinched tightly with a decorative leather belt around a too thin waist.

Some people suffered from seasickness on prolonged journeys on the Waking Sea, but Alistair knew that this was no mere seasickness. The Viscountess of Kirkwall was a shadow of her former self. Despite all of this, her hand still rested confidently on the hilt of her sword. 

Introductions and then reintroductions were made and all Alistair could do was stare at Marian Hawke. Teagan cleared his throat, interpreting Alistair’s bafflement for displeasure. Forced polite conversation was circling around him, yet the Viscountess kept her gaze fixed firmly on a point to the left of Alistair’s left shoulder and only spoke when directly spoken too. Between arriving alone and her concerning appearance, Alistair’s bafflement morphed into displeasure and then indignant anger. 

Marian Hawke was a fierce warrior, but the Ferelden court and the Ferelden people would see this shadow of a woman and verbally tear her to shreds and then some. Alistair could refuse the Viscountess, putting an end to the tentative alliance between Kirkwall and Ferelden on the grounds that Marian Hawke was unsuitable. But he wouldn’t, Alistair had the feeling that judging from her haggard appearance alone, sending the Viscountess back to Kirkwall in such a humiliating manner would be something akin to a death sentence for her. 

Teagan nudged Alistair and he cleared his throat apologetically. “I think it best that I speak to the Viscountess alone.” Eamon made a strained noise of objection which Alistair ignored. He personally escorted his mentors to the library entrance, offering the Viscountess a seat beside the warm fireplace. 

When he returned, Alistair found the Viscountess had sunk into a chair beside the table of refreshments, picking at the small dish that contained smoked pilchards.

The Viscountess looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I thought they’d never leave.”

Moving to take the chair on the other side of the table, Alistair made himself comfortable before pouring them both a desperately needed cup of ale. The two toasted to the Viscountess’s relatively safe arrival. A heavy silence fell between the two.

Alistair fished for a safe topic. “I would have thought that your Mabari would have been with you.”

“By the time we arrived in Denerim, Scout was covered in mud and filth. I left her at in the stables, I didn’t want to stink out my welcome.” The Viscountess snorted and Alistair had to chuckle at that.

“And the rest of your journey, I hope it wasn’t too tedious?” Again, another snort and Alistair was levelled with a droll stare. The speared piece of fish on her knife that the Viscountess held dripped oil onto the table.

“You’re kidding right? Rocking back and forth for five days and the ground is still moving underneath my feet. I’m sitting down!” She complained.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall did not travel well on boats it seemed. Alistair on the contrary enjoyed the rocking of waves. It was a soothing motion, which always sent him straight to sleep. He told the Viscountess this and wasn’t disappointed when she levelled him with a deadpan stare. 

“The polite thing to do would have been to emphasise with my plight, _your majesty_.” The Viscountess snarked. Alistair smirked as he topped up the ale in their cups.

An easier silence surrounded them this time as King and Viscountess picked at the food in front of them. This was an echo of what Alistair remembered, a lot had changed but this hadn’t. It was a comforting thought to have.

“This alliance between Ferelden and Kirkwall.” The Viscountess started and Alistair pushed his plate aside, leaning back in his seat with his cup in hand, giving her his full attention.

Teagan had made Alistair aware of the other stipulations negotiated with Kirkwall, particularly focusing on trade and naval agreements.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall looked Alistair directly in the eye and asked: “What do _you_ get out of it? And I’m not talking about Ferelden. I’m asking _you_ , the King of Ferelden.”

Alistair blinked, taken aback by the question. The Viscountess too had put her plate of food down and leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she waited for an answer.

“I get a Queen for Ferelden.” Alistair finally answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Alistair supposed that this conversation was inevitable, but he didn’t think he’d be having it so soon.

The proposed alliance between Ferelden and Kirkwall was confirmed through the union of King and Viscountess. The outlined terms were more than favourable for both Kirkwall and Ferelden and now, Alistair wondered if there wasn’t something underhanded happening whilst negotiations were still on the table. 

The Viscountess waved a hand, brushing his answer off. “All of this bullshit for a Queen? Why not just pick a Ferelden bride?” She pressed. Her questions hit a sore spot within, a reminder that his first choice for a queen was deemed unsuitable, not good enough for the likes of Ferelden, despite services to the country rendered.

“If this union goes ahead, I will have a Ferelden bride” Alistair retorted hotly. 

“I am from Lothering, but that’s all that connects me to Ferelden. My parents were born in Kirkwall. What family I have are in Kirkwall.” It was like the Viscountess was trying to give Alistair every reason of why she would be considered unsuitable. Alistair considered having Eamon pitch his spin on her history to the Viscountess herself.

“I’ll also add that Anders was under _my_ protection when the Chantry blew up.” There was a triumphant gleam in her eye as she took a considerable sip of her drink. When she lowered her cup, that gleam was gone, a troubled expression having replaced it.

The Champion of Kirkwall had publicly denounced the apostate Anders’ actions in the wake of the devastation of Kirkwall. There had never been a telling of her version of events on that day. Perhaps no one had ever asked the Viscountess. Or the truth was simply to chilling to bear repeating. Alistair was not inclined to talk about the dirty dealings of Ferelden’s court with just anyone. Something didn’t add up about the Viscountess as Alistair had been informed that their prospective union was a mutually agreeable one. Yet what he was seeing and hearing contradicted that statement.

If this backfired, Eamon and Teagan would both collectively have his head. Looking down at his hands, his fingers laced together and Alistair decided to give the Viscountess the shorthand version.

“I am to pick a bride to satisfy the whims of Ferelden’s nobility. You were considered as an ‘untouchable option’. Ferelden and Kirkwall would benefit and the security of Calenhad line ruling Ferelden would be assured.” The words came out much angrier than Alistair intended, an echo of the frustration he felt of being thrust into the position in the first place.

Alistair wondered if he should feel ashamed that he had been wheedled into a position where people who were his subjects had tried to manipulate him to gain some unseen advantage. It was an infuriating realisation that the work Alistair to improve and restore Ferelden post-Blight had been dismissed so easily by those with their own self-serving agendas.

The Viscountess’s expression softened as she watched Alistair, as if she understood the powerlessness of the situation that he had found himself in. _You’re being ridiculous again_ , he chided himself.

This time, it was the Viscountess who leaned forward and topped up their cups with drink. 

“I am not one who sits idly by the fire, waiting for a husband to come home.” She said oddly, as if she couldn’t believe she had just uttered such words.

Alistair waved his hand dismissively. “You threatened me with a knife once. If you chose to sit around conducting tea-parties I would have you returned to Kirkwall at once.” It was a light-hearted joke that very clearly fell flat, but the Viscountess sipped her drink smugly before her expression sobered.

“Is there a way to stop this?” She ventured.

“There is sending you back to Kirkwall in disgrace, if that’s what you want?’ The Viscountess chewed on her bottom lip, lost in thought. There was a reluctance on the Viscountess’s part, as much as Alistair was reluctant. That reluctance certainly explained why she had made an attempt at making herself as unappealing as possible to a King who commanded a considerable amount of territory and influence. 

“I don’t need you to send me back in disgrace, I can handle that on my own.” Alistair had to smile at that.

“My predicament wouldn’t change, regardless of your decision. If you wish to return to Kirkwall, I’ll make the appropriate excuses. We can renegotiate the terms of an agreement that doesn’t require marriage. You should stay until you decide.” Alistair wasn’t quite sure why he was giving the Viscountess of Kirkwall an out, apart from the fact that it was the _right thing to do_. Or perhaps because he still remembered her plea. This was the out she had sought for four years ago, the out that Alistair could finally give her.

She sported that same expression, like the Viscountess _understood_ the pickle they were both in.

“Kirkwall expects this union to go ahead.” She told Alistair bitterly. “What are the chances that my presence will upset these people enough that they out themselves?” Alistair wasn’t quite sure what exactly the Viscountess was getting at, so he shrugged.

No one could predict how Alistair’s detractors would respond to Viscountess Hawke’s presence in Ferelden. As a visiting diplomat, the Viscountess would be presented to first the Ferelden court and then the Landsmeet, should they proceed with this farce of a marriage. Alistair would be fool to think that these detractors didn’t have allies amongst the Bannorn, nor that the Viscountess would be received in an entirely positive light.

Eamon was more skilled in predicting matters such as this, but Alistair was certain that Hawke’s presence, even for a brief time would certainly cause a stir. Enough perhaps that Alistair’s detractors could unexpectantly reveal themselves.

“You will certainly upset someone.” He commented after considering the haggard Viscountess opposite him.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall smirked smugly. “I’m good at that, you know.”

“I don’t doubt you on that for one moment, Viscountess.”

The two grinned at each other, coming to an unspoken accord. Neither of them wanted to be thrown into a union with the other, such as it was. But they could try and put a stop to it, by revealing Alistair’s decriers. The Viscountess of Kirkwall thrust her hand out and Alistair accepted her hand, exchanging a firm handshake.

“Call me Hawke, it’s a lot easier than Viscountess.” She said.

* * * * * * * * * * 

Much to Alistair’s displeasure, he was roped into a conference with his uncles after Hawke excused herself to her quarters to rest, complaining of nausea and a headache. She’d brushed off Alistair’s concerns and offer to send for a healer: _this happens every time I get on a bloody boat. I’ll be fine._

Alistair had returned to his office after sending someone to fetch Hawke’s hound to be washed, groomed and sent to Hawke’s quarters. He had found Eamon and Teagan waiting for him, sporting identical expressions of concern and dissatisfaction. 

“The Viscountess?” Teagan prompted. Alistair crossed to his chair and made himself comfortable before answering. 

“Resting, she doesn’t travel well on water.”

Teagan made a nondescript noise, but it was Eamon who jumped straight to the point. “The Viscountess of Kirkwall is an embarrassment.” Eamon’s statement was born from mere observation, even so, it was an insult.

“They must take us for fools.”

Whilst Alistair agreed with his uncle to a point, he found Eamon’s criticisms directed towards Hawke to unfair. How Kirkwall displayed itself to the rest of Thedas began with its leader. It was clear that there were those in Kirkwall who didn’t hold much esteem in its Viscountess. Another contrary fact when reports only showed that the city was making remarkable leaps and strides since Hawke had stepped into the office of Viscount. 

Eamon pressed the issue when Alistair didn’t answer immediately: “I can arrange for a return ship to Kirkwall, if you want to nip this in the bud?”

Alistair ignored his uncle’s question, instead responding with what he considered to be a more pertinent question. “Hawke was quick to point out her own failings and lack of connection to Ferelden. It wasn’t the Viscountess’ office who suggested marriage for an alliance between Kirkwall and Ferelden was it?”

Teagan frowned. “During negotiations, it was implied that the Viscountess supported the idea of marriage to form alliances with Ferelden.” Eamon was stroking his chin, lost in thought. Alistair too dwelled on Teagan’s answer.

If this Hawke was consistent with the one that he had met years ago, getting any information from the Viscountess of Kirkwall would be like trying to squeeze water from a stone. Strangers they may be, but Alistair was certain that Hawke would talk only if she wanted too.

“The Viscountess didn’t say anything?” Teagan followed up.

“Apart from pointing out her own forthcomings? No.” As soon as he’d answered, Alistair knew that wasn’t true. Hawke had said more in her actions than she had with words when they had been talking in the library. It wasn’t something Alistair exactly wanted to divulge, what he had told Hawke was confidential to a fault. A shrewd state-leader with the wrong intentions would be able to use that information to their gain.

But there was one thing Alistair _could_ add that would help in swaying Eamon and Teagan’s approval.

“Hawke will stir things up by being here.” Teagan gave Alistair a nod in agreement. Though it had been some years, Teagan had seen firsthand how Hawke handled herself. In wanting to expose Anora, having the Viscountess’s unpredictability would only help their cause, not hinder it. Alistair’s little gamble wouldn’t have been in vain after all, not that he planned on revealing his candidness.

Eamon missed the point that Alistair was trying to make. “Well of course the Viscountess will ‘stir things up’. The Bannorn will be in an uproar when they see who you’ve slated for queen.”

Somehow, Alistair figured that they were no longer talking about Hawke’s suitability, but the appearance that she – Kirkwall – would give to those who considered themselves important enough to have a say. Frankly, the whole thing was shaping up to be rather ridiculous. 

Teagan spoke up this time. “The King is right on this Eamon. The Viscountess has a…unique manner.”

Even with Teagan’s choice of words, Eamon still didn’t seem overly convinced. Alistair understood where his advisor’s concern stemmed from, but it would be foolish to not take advantage of Hawke’s presence. Whether she remained and became his wife was a question for another day. If Anora’s motivation to undermine Therin rule, the Viscountess of Kirkwall simply walking through a ballroom would be enough to elicit a response so that any attempt at appropriation of the Ferelden throne couldn’t be undermined.

“Possessing a unique manner will not appease the Bannorn if they deem her unsuitable.”

Teagan beat Alistair to the punch. “If it’s looks that concern you, then we announce the truth. The Viscountess is ill after her journey and requires rest. We should be concerned that the Viscountess of Kirkwall is sickly looking. Even a brief time here will give her an opportunity to recover from whatever it ails her.” Alistair nodded in agreement.

“There are still some weeks until the Landsmeet. The Bannorn will anticipate that their next queen will be named then.” Eamon reminded the room.

Teagan interjected again: “And that is ample time to see the Viscountess’s suitability as a future Queen of Ferelden.” Alistair shot Teagan a grateful look.

Somehow, a few more precious weeks had been afforded to him. The Bannorn would likely be raring at the bit though and Anora would have stirred her sympathizers to demand an answer. A few weeks wasn’t much time in the scheme of things, though Hawke would undoubtedly enjoy the challenge that had been presented before her.

“I am concerned your majesty, that if you follow with the agreement that Ferelden has made with Kirkwall, that it will not achieve what we originally anticipated.” Now Eamon’s reservations were made clear and Alistair couldn’t fault his uncle for treading carefully.

“There isn’t any right way to solve this…issue. Except for maybe having Anora imprisoned.” Alistair tried to reassure both his uncles turned mentors. Teagan chuckled then and even Eamon, who did not smile much most days, cracked a smile.

“We did advise you to imprison or exile Anora. I recall a young King adamantly refusing to take such actions.” Eamon drawled and Alistair lifted his hands, shrugging as he did so, feigning innocence on that particular manner.

“And most days, I don’t regret doing so.” Alistair said with false cheer. The jesting only served to lighten the terse mood in the room.

Alistair still sat in his chair, fighting the sudden weariness that had come with the day. Perhaps he should have taken a leaf from Hawke’s book and rested. Thankfully, Teagan intervened before Eamon could continue dissecting the issue at hand, the Arl of Redcliffe excusing both himself and his brother.

For the first time in a long time, Alistair pulled out the bottle of whiskey that he kept in the bottom of his desk and poured himself a drink. He needed it.

* * * * * * * * * * 

Once more Alistair found himself standing at the entrance to ballroom, waiting for the double doors to admit him and the herald to announce him. Hawke stood opposite him with an unimpressed scowl. Alistair guessed that her ire had to do with the serving maid that had been assigned to her care for the duration of her stay.

_It’s not that I don’t like the lady. I’m used to looking after myself, having someone dress me is weird_ , Marian had explained to Alistair when they had met for a light lunch on her second day in Denerim.

As disgruntled as the Viscountess of Kirkwall may be, Alistair was certain that it was her serving maid who had made minute changes to the robe like dress that Hawke wore. Careful adjustments disguised Hawke’s skeletal frame and her hair had been simply styled, softening the sharp angles on her face. The simple changes couldn’t conceal the dark circles of exhaustion, but it gave Hawke an illusion of softness that Alistair knew she didn’t possess. 

“Itching to be acquainted with the Ferelden court, Hawke?” Alistair asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. Her unimpressed stare settled on the king and it was only through sheer willpower that Alistair refused to flinch at her scrutiny.

“Any particular reason we’re standing outside whilst everyone is _inside_?” She asked instead.

“We have to wait to be announced.” He explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Hawke’s eyes bugged for a moment, before she leaned against the doorframe opposite, mirroring Alistair’s relaxed stance. 

“As King, you could just walk in and get the party started, you know.” Hawke pointed out.

The sarcasm dripped from his voice as Alistair responded: “Or, we could stay out here and not have to talk to anyone at all.”

Marian grinned at him, pushing the sleeves of her robe higher up her arms, revealing gold hammered bangles that adorned her wrists, which explained the soft clinking that had accompanied her every move. He didn’t miss the sharp and angry lines of healing flesh that criss-crossed up her forearms either. Alistair frowned. 

“We could always skip this and go traipse the streets of Denerim. Relive our glory days.”

“The last time I did that, I got read a long list of reasons on why I _shouldn’t_ do that.” Alistair pretended to shudder with false horror. Hawke’s grin widened.

“Did you wear armour that was too good for the drinking hole you ended up in? I can guarantee that’s what gave you away if that’s the case.” Alistair didn’t reply, much to Hawke’s satisfaction. She pushed herself away from the wall and reached over to pat Alistair on the shoulder gently.

“If you’re good, I’ll take you out tonight. My treat.” She smirked

Alistair decided to play along. “I may be food driven, but I do know how to mind my manners.” Hawke snorted derisively.

A footman stepped forward to open the doors and Alistair stood to attention, Hawke coming into step beside him. The waiting herald began to announce first Alistair and then Hawke, welcoming the Viscountess of Kirkwall officially to Ferelden. Together, they began the walk into the ballroom where the Ferelden nobility bowed to their King and guest.

“Am I meant to smile or scowl?” She muttered into Alistair’s ear.

Alistair leaned so he could respond: “Smile please, we want to be _friendly.”_

Usually, Alistair did not pay attention to those who watched the King’s arrival and who didn’t. It was an exercise Eamon always encouraged him to practice for it could serve as an indicator of who was displeased with the Crown and who wasn’t. It was impossible to appease the entirety of the Bannorn and Alistair had learnt to shrug off the forced show of deference.

It had been common knowledge that the newly appointed Viscountess of Kirkwall was visiting Ferelden for an undetermined period. The announcements of the feast welcoming her to Ferelden had been sent with the confirmation of her arrival from Kirkwall.

It was timed in such a way that it would not be an inconvenience for those who travelled across Ferelden for the Landsmeet, with only two weeks until Wintersend festivities were due to begin. But the Bannorn were Ferelden through and through and Alistair was positive that many had made the connection between Hawke’s arrival and the Landsmeet. Some, if not all the Bannorn were aware that they were likely meeting the woman that the King of Ferelden had chosen to become their much-wanted Queen of Ferelden.

They _wanted_ to see the Viscountess of Kirkwall.

Alistair’s ears burned, always a tell-tale sign that he was the subject of gossip. A sideways glance showed Hawke sporting a polite and interested expression. She would be able to give the best of gossips a run for their money it seemed. When the pair reached the head table, Alistair opened his arms with a sweeping gesture, bidding for the party to resume.

The Ferelden court didn’t need to be told twice, by now more than used to the Ferelden King’s informal manner. The dulcet melody that the musicians played resumed and with it, rose the sound of gentle chatter. Next to him, Hawke shifted.

“I thought these types of things went on for half-Age.” Hawke murmured into his ear. Alistair shot her a triumphant grin in response.

“I’ve trained them well, only half of them get offended now when I skip seemingly important speeches so we can get to the good part of a feast.” Marian gave him a funny look, as if she were unsure if he was stringing her along for the sake of a good joke or entirely serious.

“And the good part is?” She queried, seemingly deciding to play along for the moment at least. Alistair turned and pointed at the empty head table, which would likely be groaning under the weight of the food that would be served there later.

“The feasting part of course.” He stated, as if it were the most obvious answer. Hawke shook her head and then turned her attention to gossiping nobles, scattered throughout the ballroom in their own social circles, some mingling with others.

“We should get this over with so we can get to the good part then?” She asked and Alistair nodded in agreement.

Meeting with the Bannorn was always an interesting exercise. Conversation and pleasantries always changed, depending on who was feuding with whom. Teagan had a knack for picking up on such things and was able to give a continuous running commentary when most, if not all the Bannorn were gathered.

Teagan materialised as if heeding Alistair’s thoughts. “Your majesty.” Teagan greeted with a quick bow. He turned to Hawke. “Viscountess, you look much more rested since our last meeting, the King informed us that you were ill after your journey.”

Hawke seemed taken aback that Teagan enquired after her well-being. “Better, thank you. The palace staff are most – attentive.” A droll look accompanied her compliment about the efficiency of the service within the palace, likely pertaining to the serving maid who had been tasked with seeing to the Viscountess’ needs for the duration of her stay.

“I was about to introduce the Viscountess to the Bannorn personally.” Alistair told his uncle. Teagan turned to Hawke and offered his arm to her, which she accepted.

“You’ll want to leave the King to his own devices, he’s terrible at remembering anything when it comes to the Bannorn.” He told Hawke conspiratorially.

Hawke grinned at Teagan and turned to Alistair. “We’ll just leave you to the feasting then, shall we?” She asked innocently. Alistair shook his head and gestured to the open floor.

With Teagan providing a detailed, running commentary on the Ferelden nobility, Alistair introduced Marian Hawke to the Banns and Arls of Ferelden. It was the first time that Alistair had really seen Hawke in a social setting where she wasn’t actively seeking to antagonise anyone. Certainly, she had been provided with a rudimentary introduction to Ferelden’s complex geography when it came to land holdings and combined with her own knowledge was able to hold polite conversation. Teagan’s running commentary certainly helped her there. Hawke was still painfully blunt, but it was tempered by something that Alistair would consider as a vaguely diplomatic air.

Her manner and demeanour seemed to impress most of who they met with. But notably, the most interesting exchange was the meeting with the Arl of South Reach and his daughter.

By conventional standards, Habren Bryland was a pretty woman. Alistair would be blind to not notice her striking auburn hair or how her hips were seductively emphasised by the clothes she wore. Next to Habren Bryland, the Viscountess of Kirkwall seemed to be unremarkably plain. 

Habren was another Ferelden noblewoman who had been named as a strong candidate for Alistair to consider. This was until Alistair had promptly shutdown her candidacy due to her somewhat questionable attitude and the regard in which she treated others beneath her station. Even so, it had not stopped the gentlewoman flirting with Alistair at every opportunity that was afforded to her. Indeed upon Teagan’s introductions, Habren had made a point of monopolising conversation with Alistair, placing a hand on his arm with uncomfortable familiarity whilst also throwing a churlish glance at Hawke.

Occupied as he was with Habren, Alistair still listened in on the conversation between the Arl and Hawke. Their discussion was focused on Hawke’s origins in Lothering before she and her family had been forced to flee in the wake of the darkspawn. Habren made a comment and Alistair turned his attention briefly to encourage her to join in on the conversation, which Habren compiled with; much to her disdain.

Leonas Bryland was the stark opposite of his daughter. In between managing the South Reach arling, he was an accomplished and respected historian, with his focus primarily on Ferelden war-history. It was also Arl Bryland who had given Alistair his fundamental knowledge on Ferelden politics since the federation of the country. The man was not disillusioned by the power he yielded and it was a truly humbling moment to witness when Bryland apologised to Hawke for his failure in preventing Lothering from being overrun by darkspawn.

A good portion of the land in the south-west of the South Reach arling had been adversely affected by blight sickness. A large portion of the Crown’s focus was in the South Reach and Stenhold Arlings to boost agricultural prospects. For some places and Lothering was one of them, the land after the blight was barren, unable to sustain life or a population. For Bryland, this had been viewed as a failure to his vassals. In hindsight, it might have done well to warn Hawke that this may have been the reception she would receive from the feeling Arl.

Hawke had been taken aback at Bryland’s apology. Alistair wondered if he shouldn’t step in when it seemed that Bryland had caused some unintentional offence.

Just as Alistair went to not-so-subtly change the subject, Hawke spoke up. “Your apology is needless; you have worked tirelessly for the people under your care. You have not failed anyone. Thank you for carrying this burden.”

There was a thickness to her voice that Alistair hadn’t heard before, but accompanying it was that same gleam of understanding that she had showed Alistair in the library. Her words displayed a wisdom beyond that of a warrior-turned-Viscountess. It was this kindness that she showed Bryland who had long suffered under his own perceived failure. Both Bryland and Hawke had shouldered the burdens of the people under their care. Alistair had to wonder if where Bryland had done so willingly, had those burdens been thrust upon Hawke?

This thought went a long way to explaining Hawke’s confusing narrative that was still being spun. Making a note to discuss this further with Teagan in a more private setting, it was Habren who changed the subject with an unkindly comment about Hawke’s attire.

Hawke’s attention turned from father to daughter and where Hawke had shown a level of patience and understanding with the Arl of South Reach, there was nothing but disdain for the Arl’s daughter, who was still hanging onto Alistair’s arm.

Marian locked eyes with Alistair, a brow raised before turning her attention to Habren. “Women in the Free Marches don’t bother themselves with the current fashions. Practicality is the fashion.” She answered, a smirk tugging on the corners of her mouth as she pulled aside the folds of material which revealed practical boots and leggings.

It was Teagan who laughed, louder than was probably necessary. Alistair took the opportunity to move on before more cutting remarks could be exchanged. Carefully extracting his arm from Habren, Alistair couldn’t get away before promising a dance with her.

When they were out of earshot of Bryland and Habren, Hawke again leaned to comment. “Enjoying the attention, your majesty?”

Alistair pulled a face. “Not at all, Viscountess.”

It was in this fashion that they continued meeting with the Bannorn. Taking a well-earned break when the feast was served. Unsurprisingly, Bryland sought out Hawke to continue his conversation with the Viscountess. Bryland monopolising the Viscountess’ time didn’t escape the South Reach Arl’s opponents notice and Alistair watched the exchanges carefully.

Marian Hawke had promised to stir up the Ferelden nobility and already, she was making good on her promise. It was now only a matter of time before something came out of it and Alistair hoped it was something that would be of use for them.


	9. Part II: Chapter Eight: Machinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.

**Machinations:** A plot or scheme. 

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

Elissa Cousland pulled her mount to a gentle stop outside of the Denerim palace. A waiting footman stepped forward, placing a step underneath her mount so Elissa could dismount. An ostler had grabbed hold of her mount, steadying him after the fast pace that Elissa had set. Dismissing the helping hand that was extended to her with a polite no, Elissa dismounted and took in the sight of the palace. Elissa took a deep breath.

First Day festivities in Highever had delayed Elissa’s return to the Ferelden capital. Fergus had ridden on ahead of Elissa, travelling via Amaranthine on business. After the festivities had concluded, Elissa had left Highever for Denerim. Eager to return to the capital city.

Coming back to Denerim had been an exciting prospect. Elissa had missed the friends she had made in Denerim, sending letters was no substitute for an afternoon spent in pleasant company sharing gossip gleaned from the marketplace. There was also nervous anticipation of seeing the King, foolish as it was. The two had exchanged the occasional letter after Elissa’s return to Highever, much to her childish glee. The King had kept her informed of the happenings in Denerim and of the Viscountess of Kirkwall’s pending visit. With that news, penned in the King’s own hand, came the rumours to Highever that the Viscountess was travelling to Ferelden not for a diplomatic visit, but to become Ferelden’s next Queen. A rumour that didn’t sit well with Elissa at all regardless of her personal thoughts and feelings. 

Once in Denerim, Elissa made a brief detour by the Highever Estate for a needed bath and to change out of her travel clothes. Then she had made for the palace, where Elissa knew Fergus would be. Elissa ignored the wayward thought that the King would likely be with her brother. Her delay at the estate hadn’t been because her hair wouldn’t sit right nor could she eliminate the wrinkles in her dress. No, the delay had come from penning a note to Anora, inviting the older woman out for a stroll through the marketplace.

Making her way up the palace steps, guards saluted as she passed. Footmen murmured their welcome to her. A waiting butler in the atrium informed her that Fergus had been in conference with King and that they would retire to the library before the evening meal. She was then escorted through to the library with the butler chatting idly about the happenings in Denerim, nothing new that the gossips at Highever hadn’t reported on.

Elissa had a particular fondness for the palace library, one that the King seemed to also share. It was a beautiful, spacious room that housed a collection of literature from all over southern Thedas. From Fergus, Elissa knew that the King liked to hold informal meetings and gatherings in the spacious room. It certainly lent a certain ambience, especially when conversation turned to something of more serious nature. It was almost a homely feeling, to sit within one of the window nooks or by the large fireplace, underneath a painted sky with a book plucked from one of the many shelves. Or, to sit down and discuss business with freshly brewed tea and a tray of finger food, surrounded by the carefully curated knowledge gathered from southern Thedas. There was a quiet peace in the library, but as Elissa stepped through the familiar ornate doors, she heard Fergus animatedly talking and underneath the familiar soft chuckles of King Alistair. Their business had concluded, lending Elissa to think that she had dallied longer than she initially thought.

Passing through the stacks, Elissa followed the sounds of mirthful conversation and spotting the back of her brother’s head, Elissa was prepared to interject with a dig at Fergus’s work ethic when she noticed that Arl Leonas and an unfamiliar woman sat with Fergus and the King; this must be the Viscountess of Kirkwall.

Arl Leonas was the one who stood to acknowledge her arrival, standing to greet her with a courteous bow and the news that Habren too was in Denerim; _she will be happy to see you, if time permits_. From the King, she was greeted with a chaste kiss on the hand, tawny eyes twinkling with unspoken mischief like they always did. Fergus wouldn’t be outdone however, pulling Elissa into a tight hug in greeting before turning to the waiting Viscountess who was standing off to the side. Mortified at forgetting her manners, Elissa sunk into a curtesy in deference to their visitor.

Alistair gestured to Elissa. “Viscountess, this is Lady Elissa Cousland of Highever. Elissa, I present the Viscountess of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke.” Elissa sunk into another curtesy, not missing how the King casually touched the Viscountess’s elbow as he made introductions.

“My sister, Viscountess is the true administrator of Highever, without her the terynir would be absolute shambles.” Fergus added nudging Elissa lightly with his elbow.

“The teryn likes to over-exaggerate, I apologise in advance, Viscountess.” Elissa told the Viscountess smoothly and was rewarded with a stiff but polite smile for her efforts.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall was unremarkably interesting. She was sickly pale and the robe that she wore seemed too heavy for her reedy frame. The Viscountess was quiet, maintaining the same polite smile, fingers clutching her cup tightly as if she would bolt like a startled deer. Despite Elissa’s best efforts, it was difficult to draw the Viscountess into the conversation. Yet she would respond to questions posed by the King.

Elissa wasn’t sure what to make of the Viscountess, but she wasn’t impressed. 

This same tight-lipped manner from the Viscountess continued into dinner. A server appeared in the library, announcing dinner was served in the lesser dining room. Arl Leonas excused himself then, leaving to dine with his daughter much to Elissa’s dismay. Fergus stood, offering the Viscountess his arm to escort her through and Elissa didn’t miss the Viscountess’s gracious smile as she accepted Fergus’s hand. Her brother and the Viscountess went on ahead as Elissa fussed for a few seconds longer than necessary. The King similarly offered his arm to Elissa, which accepted trying to ignore

But when Fergus all but jumped out of his seat and offered the Viscountess his arm, Elissa saw the gracious smile as the Viscountess accepted it. It was easy to fuss for a few seconds longer than necessary, Alistair remaining to escort Elissa. Following Fergus and the Viscountess’s footsteps, Elissa tried to slow her racing heart, thrilled to be so close to the King.

Elissa finally dared to comment: “The Viscountess is an interesting woman.” Ahead of them, came unfamiliar feminine laughter joining with Fergus’ familiar guffaws. Alistair nodded in agreement. Elissa fought a frown at the sound of merriment from coming ahead of them.

“The Viscountess certainly keeps you on your toes” Alistair said affably, and Elissa wondered if the King just didn’t notice the Viscountess’s stiff demeanour.

“I hope that I didn’t do something to offend her.” Elissa confided, only to regret speaking in the first place. It sounded petty, childish even, to be concerned that a visiting Viscountess didn’t care for the lowly sister of a Teryn. Alistair stopped Elissa, his arm still linked wit hers, turning her so she faced him. Elissa’s ears burned and she swallowed, hyper-aware of their close proximity. 

“Hawke has come here under considerable stress –” Alistair began and despite her embarrassment at being so close to Alistair, she frowned. “– it’s not an excuse, but her…prickliness isn’t out of dislike or spite.” Elissa wasn’t so sure about that.

“I’m sure you realize that Fergus talks of you fondly and frequently. After hearing about you, Hawke expressed an eagerness to meet you.” It was a hard thing to believe given the indifferent greeting that Elissa had received, and she went to say as much. 

Alistair shook his head, wanting to finish his explanation. “I am not making excuses for Hawke, but I ask you to show her some kindness and patience. She is sorely in need of it.” Alistair’s request surprised Elissa. Rumour had not addressed the very real fact that the Viscountess and King of Ferelden knew each well enough that the King of Ferelden was able to explain away the Viscountess’s standoffish manner.

Not wanting to cause unnecessary strife even with the King’s intriguing insights, Elissa moved the conversation away from the topic of the Viscountess. It was easier to give the King of Ferelden a reassuring smile, promising that she would do her best to be patient. Continuing onto the dining room, Elissa didn’t miss the frown that crossed the Viscountess’s face when Alistair pulled Elissa’s seat out for her, seating her. 

_The Viscountess is not merely being prickly_ , Elissa thought to herself.

* * * * * * * * * * 

Never in her lifetime, did Marian Hawke think that she would ever find herself in Denerim, let alone lodging in the royal palace. Yet here she was. Not even when she had lived in Ferelden and served in the king’s army had she come within spitting distance of Fort Drakon, which was an idle backdrop in the view afforded to her from her _bedroom window_. Yet somehow here she was, set up in opulent guest quarters that made those in Kirkwall plain in comparison with a handmaid who tried to have her sword and armour sent away to be cleaned daily. 

Two weeks had passed since Marian’s arrival in Denerim in a snap. Her days had been filled with the usual diplomatic activities that was customary for a visiting state leader to a flourishing country such as Ferelden. Now she found herself with a day that didn’t have any obligations attached to it. Bran had tried to dictate Marian’s movements by planning her schedule before departing Kirkwall until Marian had put her foot down. The decision had been out of her hands on _why_ she had come to Denerim in the first place. Likewise, she had also refused a retinue to escort her. Marian would be damned if _anyone_ tried to dictate her movements in another country, let alone her country of birth. 

The very real threat of being arrested and handed over to the Order under the charge of desertion was enough to cow Marian Hawke into submission, but she wouldn’t do so quietly. Possessing the skills of a templar didn’t mean that one had deserted the Order. All it meant was that an errant templar had deemed her worthy to pass such skills onto. But she was in Ferelden and Bran and his fellow conspirators had to be satisfied with that. Kirkwall at least was in safe hands, insisting that Aveline and Varric stay was the right thing to do, who knew what havoc Bran would wreck under Carrac’s orders whilst she was gone? 

Worries for Kirkwall aside, Marian had been warmly welcomed back to Ferelden in such a way that echoed an assurance that was uttered long enough ago that Marian couldn’t remember the words. King Alistair Therin was still the laidback jokester of a king that she had met in the Hanged Man before everything dissolved into shit around her. Years had passed and though those qualities remained, now there was a solemn wisdom about him which only came with ruling a country. Alistair was a king in his prime, only the subtle changes that came naturally with age suggested anything of the contrary. The same familiar gleam in his eyes remained, as well as that comfortable ease when conversing with the man. Marian would be blind not to see the King of Ferelden was as handsome as she remembered him to be. 

Alistair Therin had gone out of his way to make Marian welcomed in Denerim, even when some members of the Ferelden elite had sneered at her in disbelief. But for each naysayer, there were those who warmly welcomed her and welcomed her thoughts and insights into Ferelden affairs. It was with those nobles that Alistair arranged informal affairs with. 

This hiccup in a schedule could have been the result of careful planning, or the King’s meeting had come unexpectantly, leaving Marian with the free day as the King prepared for the Landsmeet. The first portion of her day had been dedicated to answering matters from Kirkwall. A separate letter from Varric, sent the day after she had departed Kirkwall described an offer of investment for the Bone Pit. The final contracts were expected to be signed over the remainder of the week and was reassuring news that the mine would be safe from greedy clutches of Kirkwall’s elite. 

When her work was thankfully exhausted, Marian had pulled on the hardened leather armour that had accompanied her from Kirkwall and made for the soldier barracks.

She had expressed her desire to join the on-going training that the palace-guard received when Marian had been introduced to the captain of the guard. Her request had been met with considerable enthusiasm, much to Marian’s surprise. The exercise wasn’t merely for the Viscountess to maintain a battle-ready fitness, but also a convenient way to glean training techniques and exercises to bring back to Kirkwall. Aveline would have likely gutted her for not taking such an opportunity.

After days of wearing formal attire that was stiff and limited movement, feeling the slight weight leather armour was familiar and freeing. The decorated leather was much more suited for ceremonial purposes, but it would do in a pinch for the purposes of training. With her longsword sheathed on her belt, Marian felt like herself again. 

In the training yard, she was welcomed with anticipated respect. At her insistence that the exercise continue as if she were just another soldier, the Viscountess of Kirkwall was put through her paces. Aveline was more than just a competent Guard-Captain, her skills extended to the training regimes that varied in difficulty and could leave recruits crying with exhaustion. Like she was now in Denerim, Marian participated frequently and often, but the gruelling routine that the Denerim captain subjected her too challenged Aveline’s harshest training regimes. The repetition of each drill until her muscles were stiff and aching was welcomed, so to her hands red and chafed from the repeated swings of her waster colliding with the straw training dummy. Moping the sweat from her brow afterwards, Marian realized that a smouldering fire within had been reignited. She would be back, if she was still welcomed; Marian had told the Guard-Captain, who had seemed just as eager for the Viscountess to return for another round with his soldiers. 

Despite her aching muscles, which screamed every time she lifted her foot to walk up the stairs, Marian had decided that a little tour outside of the palace was required. She had promised the King the little excursion after all.

At dinner that evening, Marian claimed tiredness after her exertions as an excuse to retire early.

Marian hadn’t thought she would have had to contend with the handmaid assigned to tend to her for the duration of her stay in Denerim. Marian’s handmaid was a spirited city-elf called Svea who possessed a stubborn streak a mile wide. Even though Marian still resisted Svea’s services every day, she had come to appreciate the often-silent company and the occasional philosophic conversation. Waiting until Svea had finished her needless fussing had felt like forever.

Two lines of lyrium perked her up for what would be a long night. Donning worn pants that had been patched too many times, a tunic and an oversized jacket coupled with boots, Marian then stole through the palace to where she knew Alistair’s quarters were, sword in hand. Her sharp, urgent knock on the door was thankfully answered by the King himself who looked to be semi-retired for the evening, judging by his relative state of undress. Alistair took in Marian standing on the other side of the door, jaw dropping open before remembering himself and yanking Marian inside, the door closing behind them with a loud snap. 

“What are you doing here. Hawke?” Alistair demanded. He wasn’t angry, more so surprised. Marian held up her sword and wriggled it in what she hoped was an enticing manner. 

“I promised you a night out, didn’t I? It’s my shout.” From under her tunic, Marian pulled a drawstring pouch out and shook it, the coin jangling within. Alistair looked at her as if she had sprouted another head.

“And here I thought you were joking.” He muttered and turned away, wrapping his open shirt tightly around him. “I have seen more than your chest, I’m not a blushing virgin.” Marian reminded him with a smirk.

Alistair snorted. “I didn’t think I’d need to tell you there’s eyes about this palace.” Marian shrugged, unphased at the idea of having been spotted. “It’s not like I went stomping through the hallways announcing my destination.” She answered with a roll of her eyes.

Alistair considered Marian with a careful eye before relenting. “If we go, we have to be back before the end of the night watch.”

“I’m not planning on falling asleep in one of Denerim’s watering holes.” Marian pointed out.

Alistair gestured towards the sword in her hand. “Or getting arrested?”

“That’s one way of getting back into the palace, isn’t it?”

Alistair was looking at Marian as if she had finally lost the plot. Maybe she had a long time ago, that fact was still up for discussion. But standing in the King’s bedroom and arguing about the how’s and where’s of sneaking out to some pub in Denerim wasn’t going to get a drink in her hand any faster.

“We could stand here discussing the semantics of sneaking out, or you could just get dressed and we can go. I doubt the King of Ferelden wants to sneak out half-dressed in the cold.” Marian pointed out, moving to take a seat in the armchair that sat beside the crackling fireplace. Alistair shook his head, the tips of his ears flushing red before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the bedchamber.

It wasn’t long before Alistair remerged, buttoning a vest over a plain tunic before slinging a warm coat on over the top. His boots were worn and stained with mud. 

“Something that you had lying around?” Marian quipped.

Alistair wriggled his brows at Marian, gesturing at her sword. “You won’t need a sword, a knife or two will do.” Marian hesitated for half a moment, before stashing her sword in a discrete corner, should a servant see it before she could reclaim it.

Alistair opened his door and a quick check showed the hallway was deserted. Marian slipped out behind Alistair, trying her best to follow in Alistair’s shadow. A tad difficult when Marian was almost as tall as he was. They weaved through the palace hallways; their careful footsteps muffled by the plush runners that ran the length of the hallways.

It was a thrilling game, one that Marian hadn’t been able to play in what felt like a long time. Alistair gave her whispered directions as they went along, making for a little-known passage that would take them out into the streets of Denerim. But they had to get to it first. At the last corridor that would take them down into the cellar, Alistair froze. Voices were filtering down the corridor, it wasn’t late enough that the palace had gone to sleep for the night. A messenger had arrived, delivering correspondence. Marian stuck her head under Alistair’s arm, checking out the situation. The guard and messenger didn’t completely have their backs to them, but they would have to move quickly if they didn’t want to get caught.

The conversation changed from business to a personal one. Marian decided that if they were going to wait any longer, they may as well go back to Alistair’s room and have a servant bring them a couple of bottles of whiskey for their trouble.

Grabbing Alistair’s hand, she pulled him forward, stepping quickly across the length of the corridor that separated them from sweet drunken bliss. The lyrium burned through her veins, lending to the thrill of dodging a royal palace full of guards.

As the King and Viscountess of Kirkwall disappeared into the palace cellar, they didn’t notice that the messenger who had arrived with notes for the King had noticed their presence. Or the triumphant smirk that spread across her face.

* * * * * * * * * *

Cauthrien shifted closer, taking Anora’s hand in hers. “You need to drop this.” The knight insisted.

Anora shook her head, but still graced Cauthrien with a dazzling smile. Cauthrien thought she had figured out Anora’s scheme, but the knight was wrong. Cauthrien thought Anora sought the throne for herself. The knight was mistaken. It wasn’t Anora that would become queen. No, Anora had slated the endearing Elissa Cousland as the right candidate and so far, it seemed like the King agreed with Anora’s choice. It certainly helped matters along when dear Elissa seemed to be enamoured with the King as well. Personally, Anora couldn’t see what the appeal was. 

The Viscountess of Kirkwall – this _Marian Hawke_ – was making things difficult. Opinion on Denerim’s esteemed visitor varied depending on who you spoke to. Some spoke positively of the Viscountess, describing her attentiveness to the conversation and polite candidness in expressing her thoughts and opinions. Others spoke of a curt, undiplomatic woman. It was difficult to gauge if this woman had a positive or negative rapport with the King of Ferelden. Certainly, it would help matters along if the King disagreed with the Kirkwall viscountess. Though she hadn’t the opportunity to observe this Marian Hawke in person, the Landsmeet was rapidly approaching. Rumour had confirmed for Anora that the Viscountess would still be in Denerim for the Wintersend festivities.

Before Anora could even consider how she was going to approach the Viscountess, Anora wanted Elissa’s take on the Viscountess. Elissa Cousland sat in such a way amongst the Ferelden peerage that she was able to observe the happenings around her, from the Bannorn to the King himself. Anora’s careful questioning of such matters over the months, combined with Elissa’s chatter had painted a better picture of the current affairs than Anora had been able to glean beforehand.

The thought of what Elissa could achieve with Anora whispering in her ear as Queen was an exciting thought.

“You could be charged with _treason_.” Cauthrien pushed her point again, her hand still in Anora’s. Anora squeezed Cauthrien’s fingers in reassurance. Treason was a tricky charge to handle, but if push came to shove, Anora would stand in a court of law and argue that actions resulting in _her_ removal from the Ferelden throne had been treasonous acts as well. Though she was positive that the counterargument would be that the decision was made at the Landsmeet and therefore wasn’t an act of treason against the Crown.

The double standards were honestly astounding.

“Nothing of the sort will happen, Cauthrien.” Anora attempted to soothe. Cauthrien regarded Anora through those long lashes, unconvinced.

Cauthrien had only brought the topic up again due to Threnn calling by with interesting gossip pertaining to the King of Ferelden and Viscountess of Kirkwall. Threnn was as loyal to Anora as she had been to her father. Under the restored Therin rule, Threnn had been transferred from the infantry into the aides corps. A waste of a good soldier, in Anora’s not-so-humble opinion. The transfer hadn’t been completely in vain however, allowing Threnn to see and hear things that had proved to be useful to Anora.

Such exposure to information and gossip had been why Threnn had come knocking on Anora’s door when it was still early enough to be considered rude. Indeed, Anora and Cauthrien had only just sat down for breakfast when Threnn had come dashing in. She had witnessed the King and the Viscountess leave the palace _together_. Curiosity getting the better of her, Threnn had stayed overnight at the palace, wandering the halls and loitering about the King’s quarters, hoping that she would see the two rulers return.

Threnn hadn’t been disappointed.

In the relative safety of the dark corridor she had watched the King and Viscountess return, whisper-shouting to one another with slurred words before retiring in the King’s chambers _together_. Wherever they had been, it hadn’t been a visit that would have been listed on the King’s daily schedule, that much was for certain.

In order to ensure that Elissa was successful in capturing the King’s attentions, whatever was going on between the King and Viscountess had to be nipped in the bud immediately. Cauthrien had jumped to absurd conclusions that weren’t so far off from the truth. 

Cauthrien was still regarding Anora with unfettered concern. Anora let out a sigh, the woman cared too much where Anora was concerned. Another tight squeeze of the other woman’s fingers, Anora would have to explain more than what she had been prepared to divulge. It wasn’t that she doubted Cauthrien; on the contrary, Anora trusted Cauthrien inexplicably. It was easier for Anora to protect Cauthrien if the knight didn’t know the finer details of what she was up too.

“I am using my position to support Elissa’s pursual of the Ferelden throne.” It wasn’t an outright lie, but it wasn’t a full disclosure of the truth either. Anora found that she didn’t like this type of dishonesty with Cauthrien either. But there was little to be done, Cauthrien already assumed too much already. With her freehand, Anora took a much-needed sip of her tea, but she wasn’t willing to let go of Cauthrien’s hand.

Cauthrien wouldn’t relent, the stubborn woman. “I told you that meddling with the King is not a wise choice.” Anora ran a soft thumb over Cauthrien’s calloused one.

“And I told you that I’m not, I’m merely helping Elissa navigate the complexities of courtship with the King of Ferelden.”

“Anora.” Cauthrien uttered exasperated.

“Cauthrien.” Anora mimicked frivolously. Cauthrien lifted their joined hands so she could run her knuckles against Anora’s cheek in a fond manner. Anora sighed into the touch. She shouldn’t have garnered as much comfort from the gesture as she did.

Cauthrien fixed Anora with that familiar stern gaze. “Tread carefully Anora.” There was that same wave of unease, accompanying a twinge of guilt. This conversation should have been inconsequential, but for some reason it wasn’t. 

“Wintersend will be interesting.” Anora murmured and Cauthrien nodded in agreement.

“Come with me to Wintersend?” Each year Cauthrien had asked Anora. The first year, Cauthrien had chaperoned Anora in a bid to get her outside after months spent inside. The second year was much the same. From the third year onwards, it had been less about going outside and more about enjoying the festivities together.

Anora still didn’t quite understand why Cauthrien insisted on asking her the same question every year when the knight already knew that Anora would accept her every time. 

“Of course, you know I will.” And like every year when Anora answered, Cauthrien smiled brilliantly, eyes shining for Anora alone.

“Invite Elissa and we can enjoy it together.” Anora shifted closer to Cauthrien and relished the heat of her hand in hers.


	10. Part II: Chapter Nine: Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.

**Complications:** A circumstance that complicates something; a difficulty.

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

Someone was insistently knocking on the door, interrupting Alistair’s ale fuelled slumber. Muttering under his breath, Alistair delved further underneath the covers, savouring the comforting warmth. Despite this new and arguably safer position, the knocking still continued. Alistair swore, much louder this time and a feminine voice echoed his sentiments somewhere beside him. Hawke.

 _What is Hawke doing here?_ Alistair wondered. Hawke. Bed. 

The realization that Hawke – _Hawke_ – was with him, in his bed. When the thought finally managed to permeate through the haze in his mind, Alistair found himself scrambling out from underneath the safe haven of covers.

Alistair had stumbled back into the palace with Hawke just after the fourth bell of the day had sounded out of Fort Drakon. Hawke wasn’t the type to have one or two drinks; Hawke was the type who downed her beer in one and five minutes later ended up in a drinking competition with the tavern regulars. Which was exactly what happened. This was after Hawke and Alistair had slunk into the tavern that Alistair had used to frequent, and he was greeted with roars of welcome.

Apparently, the excursions Alistair had made all those years ago had become one of the worst, best kept secrets in Denerim. Hawke had called Alistair on the back at the revelation, a smirk in place as she declared that the next round of drinks was on him. 

Hawke had still footed the bill for the night, regardless of her proclamation.

Their return to the palace was punctured with a drunken, light-hearted debate over the fastest route through the palace that would get them back to Alistair’s room. As far as Alistair could remember, they had managed to return unscathed to Alistair’s room where Marian would wait until dawn before sneaking back to her rooms which were fortunately not that far from the King’s. They’d settled on the bed, following the drunken logic that being comfortable and warm was the best way to wait out the few hours until dawn.

Clearly, they’d fallen asleep.

Alistair glanced over to where Hawke was curled up, snoring softly and her hair a tangled mess. She’d removed the outer layers of clothing, leaving the no-sleeved shirt that showed off the freckled arms of a warrior. Looking at Hawke when she was asleep, it was hard to believe that the same woman was so fearsome when awake. A sleeping Marian Hawke was _endearing_.

Alistair shook his head and put his addled thoughts down to little sleep and too much booze. Whoever was on the other side of the door was still knocking insistently. Scooping up his discarded tunic, Alistair padded through to the door. Choice words were on his lips, ready to put whoever was daring to interrupt his alcohol-fuelled blissful slumber in their place.

Yanking the door open, Alistair found Eamon on the other side. His arm was raised and his hand was balled into a fist. “Any reason you’re banging insistently on my door?” Alistair greeted, his voice hoarse from sleep and shouting.

Eamon squinted at his nephew suspiciously, almost like he just _knew_ what Alistair had been doing some hours previously. Alistair fought the very real urge to fix his hair.

“The handmaid has reported the Viscountess is missing.” Eamon said bluntly. Alistair resisted the urge to turn his head and check that Hawke was still asleep in his bed.

Relieved that it wasn’t something more urgent, Alistair couldn’t help a short bark of laughter.

“Alistair of all times to laugh, this isn’t one of them.” Eamon stressed. As much as Alistair wanted to enjoy the moment, he had to think on his feet, which was pretty hard when his head was aching from too much drink and too little sleep.

“The Viscountess is well and alive. Have you checked out at the barracks? I know that she was training with the palace-guard yesterday.” Alistair deflected instead.

“If she is very well and alive, could you enlighten us as to _why_ she isn’t in her quarters?”

“Well, I’m not her mother. That would be weird.”

Eamon was quickly losing his patience. “This isn’t a game Alistair. If the Viscountess is in danger, then it is pertinent that we _act appropriately_.” Alistair’s options were quickly diminishing, telling Eamon the truth was not going to go down well. He also didn’t want to receive a lecture from Eamon on the threshold of his own bedroom.

Hawke took the option away from him. Behind him, in the relative safety of his bedroom there was a thud of something falling onto cold stone, followed by a stream of loud curse words that would make a Chantry sister blush. Alistair’s plan of getting Hawke back to her rooms with both their indignities relatively intact was rapidly diminishing. 

There was no point in trying to hide the fact that Hawke was the unspecified female cursing in his room. Eamon was as skilled as a Mabari when it came to rooting out the truth. Stepping aside, Eamon peered into the room and Alistair watched with his uncle as Hawke’s messy head emerged from the tangle of blankets.

Eamon shook his head in disbelief. 

“We will talk about this _later_.” There was a dangerous air to Eamon’s voice. This wasn’t a conversation that Alistair could disobey because he was the King. Eamon was furious. At least the older man recognised the potential ramifications of pushing the issue when his door was open and every man and his Mabari would take the opportunity to listen into every conversation that occurred out of his personal quarters. 

“And for Andraste’s sake, make sure the Viscountess gets back to her room _without_ being seen.” Eamon hissed before retreating.

Alistair shut the door and leaned against it. Hawke was sitting on the bed, running her fingers through her unruly hair as if she wasn’t sitting on the cold floor after falling out of bed. 

“Apparently, you’ve been missed.” Alistair told her, struggling to contain the mirth that suddenly filled him. The irony wasn’t lost on him at all. He wasn’t a teenager that couldn’t keep it in his pants. Yet Eamon was gearing up for a scolding like he was. A bubble of laughter slipped from his lips. Hawke had a shit-eating grin on her face.

“I _said_ we should have gone to the kitchens.” Hawke said holding her hands up in mock innocence.

A frown threatened to overcome his good humour, as Alistair could clearly see the fine lines of healing flesh. Hawke typically kept her arms covered, a fact that Alistair had noticed, but the last time he had seen her forearms, the lines of sliced flesh had been much angrier; they were fresh wounds. These cuts were healing which was somewhat reassuring. Alistair cleared his throat, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he had noticed. It wasn’t exactly a topic of conversation that he could bring up with Hawke, they weren’t even _friends_ after all. 

“Eamon is going to be yelling for hours.” Alistair commented instead. 

Hawke’s grin grew wider. “Would it help if I told him that you were the perfect gentleman? You bought me a drink before luring me back to your bed at least.”

“I’ll make sure he knows that this was all _your_ idea.”

“Please do, I think the man likes me.”

Hawke had pulled her boots back on and after rifling through the blankets on the floor, Hawke found her tunic and coat. Pulling the tunic on over her head and tucking the front tails into her pants, Hawke slung her coat over her shoulders.

“Tell me, do I look suitably ravished by the King?” She was still joking, despite her suddenly serious tone. Alistair shrugged. An idea came to him then, explaining away Hawke’s appearance on the offchance that they were seen. Alistair pulled on his boots and a fresh vest – the other stunk of beer that had been spilled on it. Finally, he pulled on his coat and winked.

“No one can say you were up to something if we just went for an early morning walk.” Alistair explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Hawke’s shit-eating grin returned. “You’ll have the guard in a frenzy for weeks you know. The King and Viscountess simply walked out of the palace and weren’t seen by _anyone_?”

Alistair pulled the door open. “Have to keep them on their toes somehow.” Alistair responded casually as he beckoned Hawke through the door.

They fell into step beside one another, Alistair deliberately taking Hawke the long way around to her quarters. If there were rumours of the Viscountess going missing, having her being seen was the best response. At the hallway that would take Alistair down to his office and return Hawke to her quarters, they paused.

“Lunch?” Hawke asked with a wink, though her meaning was plain: _let me know how the showdown with Eamon goes._ Only because there were people milling about, Alistair gave a slight bow and said, “thank you for the company, Viscountess. It was an illuminating discussion about Kirkwall.”

Hawke’s laughter filtered through her door when it closed behind her.

*** * * * * * * * * ***

Eamon closed the door to the office with a definitive snap. Pretending that this was a social visit, Alistair looked up uninterested before returning to his work. Alistair had managed to bathe and change into a fresh set of clothes. He’d taken his late breakfast in his office and he was sitting on a third cup of tea when Eamon arrived. With one eye on his uncle, Alistair watched as Eamon Guerrin seated himself on the other side of the desk.

Alistair began the countdown in his head, Eamon liked to let one stew for their wrongdoing before calmly discussing the issue. Or in Alistair’s case since he had become King, Eamon liked to lecture.

“I hope you can understand why I was annoyed this morning.” Eamon finally began.

Alistair had expected a much more explosive response instead of a cool statement. Not knowing quite how to receive Eamon’s concerns, Alistair opted for silence. Silence was golden but it was also a double-edged sword of condemnation. It was hard to determine what it would be in this instance.

“The issue I have is that you and the Viscountess both left the palace with no one to account for your departure and arrival. There’s also the fact that if the Viscountess was seen returning to your quarters with you. This isn’t appropriate behaviour to display when you are currently seeking a bride.” Eamon made a valid point, but it was just as disappointing to hear that they had been spotted returning to the palace.

Alistair couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Being with Hawke is probably one of the safest options in Denerim, you know that? She’s an accomplished swordswoman _and_ I was trained to be a Templar.” Eamon regarded Alistair and he to support his argument, Alistair added: “We probably should have informed the guard…at least.” 

“This was a foolish idea, Alistair.” 

“We’re not children and we know how to look after ourselves.” Alistair defended both him and Hawke before he could question the wisdom of such a thing.

“That may be so Alistair, but you are also the King of Ferelden. What endears you to the people is your hubris. How you present yourself presents to the world on _who_ the King of Ferelden is. You are aware that your dissenters would use a _rumour_ of the Viscountess sneaking into your quarters to paint you as a womanizer with no interest in the country?” Eamon’s words were succinct and to the point. Alistair decided that he would much have preferred the scolding that he once would have received as a young boy, before he was sent to the Chantry to begin templar training.

Combined with his disappointment, Eamon’s words were enough to make Alistair wonder if he hadn’t hidden his thoughts and feelings on the matter well enough. “If you continue such…compromising behaviour with the Viscountess, you will have to marry her simply to save face. For her sake as well as yours.” 

It wasn’t what Alistair wanted nor needed to hear. Though it did certainly go along way to confirming Hawke’s claim that Eamon liked her. Alistair took the unsung opportunity to try and change the conversation to an equally unpleasant topic.

“Any news about Anora?” Alistair ventured instead. Eamon wagged a finger at him, silently admonishing him for changing the subject. “Not since our last conversation.” That was somewhat reassuring at least, but it didn’t eliminate the fact that the Landsmeet was taking place a few days from now.

Hawke had certainly made good on her promise to stir things up. The Bannorn were clearly talking and gossiping, but there had been nothing about Anora’s little scheme. Nor of anyone else that was involved, which was rather disappointing in itself. 

Eamon didn’t need to remind Alistair that time was running out. Suddenly frustrated, Alistair ran his fingers through his hair. An impossible choice was put before him: refuse to marry and have his legitimacy to rule Ferelden challenged _or_ accept the challenge and contend with the Bannorn voting on who was their King.

 _Or_ , he could marry and dodge both options.

Alistair was aware of how precariously Therin rule prevailed. If it weren’t for Bryce Cousland rejecting the throne when King Maric had disappeared so many years ago, Alistair wouldn’t be contemplating his own position. Therin line had only prevailed _because_ of Bryce Cousland declining the Ferelden throne.

But it was so many years later that Therin rule was once more threatened and it had nothing to do with Alistair’s connection or lack thereof with Maric Therin. Alistair had met Cailan once at Ostagar, before everything went to shit around them. He remembered how Cailan swept a careful eye over him and Alistair had wondered why the King of Ferelden had scrutinised him in such a manner. Or why Cailan had insisted that it be the two Grey Wardens to light the beacon atop of the Tower of Ishal. And then Eamon had told Alistair the truth of his parentage.

So no, Alistair had decided. He wouldn’t let anyone or anything threaten the Therin line or name again. Not even Anora, who knew more about his family name than Alistair did himself. 

“Is there really no way to get around this without marrying someone?” Alistair had asked this question in a roundabout way a year or so ago. Maybe a year ago, he could have quieted his dissenters and quelled the issue without such drastic action…maybe.

Eamon looked as unsure as Alistair currently felt.

With a shake of his head, Eamon confirmed what Alistair had feared for some time now. “Not without losing the throne in the process, Alistair.” Alistair’s heart sunk at the confirmation.

Of course it was inevitable. Alistair had fooled himself into thinking that Hawke would have been able to help him circumnavigate this issue. Just like he would have helped her dodge hers…even though Hawke still hadn’t revealed the finer details of what had happened in Kirkwall. It was an odd feeling, to recognise that he had been defeated before the fight had even begun.

Alistair had been left with a choice. It was a choice between the lovely Elissa Cousland, who Anora was likely manipulating for her own gain, who was inherently kind and maintained a youthful innocence despite the hardships of life. Or there was Marian Hawke, Elissa’s polar opposite. A woman who could and would challenge him on the littlest of things. 

“I cannot tell you who to marry Alistair. If that’s what you’re going to ask. You already know who my choice would be and why.” Eamon reminded Alistair in a gentle manner.

Alistair did know after all that Eamon had picked Hawke. That Eamon had determined that Hawke was the best option to stop the Bannorn from striping Alistair of his right to rule Ferelden.

“Having the opportunity to know the Viscountess better, I would even go so far to say that she would be a complimentary Queen for you.” It was an afterthought, added in a conciliatory manner.

Alistair was no fool. He knew that this was the closest that Eamon would ever come to outright admitting that he not only liked the acerbic Viscountess of Kirkwall, but that she was also a suitable choice to rule Ferelden alongside Alistair.

Alistair could already see the triumphant grin on her face when he told her this.

But with Eamon’s recommendation came the other troubling thought: that there really was no other choice _but_ Hawke. The illusion of choice had been given to him, but if Anora’s schemes had not come to light, likely there would have been another lady, Ferelden born who would have been chosen for him.

Alistair made a noise of frustration. “Can you really blame me, for wanting to get out of the Palace?” Eamon shook his head, agreeing with Alistair on one thing at least.

“You can walk away, if that’s what you want. Name a successor and abdicate.” The suggestion was made carefully, but Alistair simply stared at his uncle, dumbstruck. Through all this grief and frustration, Alistair had never once considered abdicating the throne. He had been placed into the position of King; the steps taken to get where he was had been arduous. Not once had Alistair considered what many would call the ‘easy way out’.

But Alistair could abdicate. He could fill his pack with supplies and set out after the Warden. Once he would have daydreamed of such things. Not now though, he couldn’t imagine writing the speech to the Bannorn and the people of Ferelden detailing his resignation of the throne and outlining his reasons why. This was a firm reminder of the hard life lessons that he had learnt through the blight.

Alistair’s answer held his conviction: “No, I will not abdicate.”

Eamon stroked his chin in thought. “And you will announce the Queen of Ferelden at the Landsmeet?” He queried.

“Yes.”

*** * * * * * * * * ***

It was the first warm day of the year and the persistent light rain that had been falling over the last week or so had finally let up. There was a decidedly fresh smell on the gentle breeze that pushed through Denerim off the Waking Sea, which was rather invigorating, a promise for finer weather to come. Elissa was eager to finally get outside and really stretch her legs, being confined indoors because of the cold and wet was making her restless. The palace gardens were her destination and wanting some company, Elissa had sent her card to Anora’s residence in the morning inviting her friend to join her. Even with the less than desirable weather, Elisa had found herself attending various engagements constantly since her arrival in Denerim. Finding a suitable time and day to spend with Anora had been harder than Elissa had thought it would be.

But Anora understood Elissa’s busyness and had returned her invitation with a delighted note which had certainly put an excited bounce in Elissa’s step. There was much to discuss with Anora and, Elissa reasoned that Anora would want to hear about the Viscountess of Kirkwall as well. 

Despite Elissa’s best efforts and Alistair’s advice, the Viscountess had yet to warm to Elissa. She was strictly polite, and Elissa spotted how the Viscountess would watch her carefully, the hint of a frown on her face. If it wasn’t so confusing, Elissa would have taken offence long ago. Fergus had told her that the Viscountess hailed from Lothering, which meant that before now, they never would have met. Still, Elissa was determined to not let the Viscountess of Kirkwall’s coldness bother her. 

Waiting at the entrance, Elissa didn’t have long to wait before she spotted Anora in the company of a familiar woman who wore the plate armour of a Ferelden Knight. She had seen the knight at functions at the palace but had never had the opportunity to formally meet her. There were few females who held the station and the brunette’s presence was always noticeable when wearing the knight’s regalia.

Elissa called out to Anora, waving in greeting. Anora broke from her companion with a delighted exclamation and Elissa quickened her pace to meet her. Anora caught Elissa up in a tight embrace which Elissa reciprocated, it had been too long since they had last seen one another. Chattering excitedly, the knight caught up with Anora and Elissa and sunk into a practiced bow as she presented herself formally to Elissa.

“Ser Cauthrien at your service, my lady.”

“This is Elissa Cousland.” Anora introduced and the knight nodded her head as Elissa sunk into a quick curtsey out of respect of Cauthrien’s station.

Anora turned to Elissa, leaning in so she could stage-whisper. “Cauthrien was kind enough to escort me her but will not eavesdrop on our talk.” Both Elissa and Anora exchanged sweet smiles at the teasing comment.

Cauthrien made a shooing gesture to both her and Elissa. “On your way then, before the weather turns and we have to go back inside.” Taking Elissa’s hand in hers, Anora pulled Elissa along and into the garden.

Elissa was happy to let Anora lead the way, the two women strolling down a worn and somewhat familiar path. It had been many years since Elisa had been in the gardens, the last time had been with her mother at a luncheon hosted by Anora herself. Even though she could place the time and remembered the heady perfume of flowers on the air and the buzz of bees, Elissa didn’t remember much of the day itself. Likely she had been off playing games with other girls her age. Fitting really, that Elissa’s first real tour of the royal gardens was with Anora, of all people. 

A stray thought of coming her with Alistair, her hand linked with his was rather desirable as well. Elissa could feel the blush on her cheeks at the mere thought of it.

Idle topics dominated their conversation, such as First Day activities. Elissa had missed the easy conversation with Anora. As much as she had enjoyed their letters, she always preferred to be in the company of her friends. Then the topic of Wintersend had come up; would Elissa be in Denerim or would she return to Highever?

Elissa shook her head excitedly. “Denerim this year, it’ll be the first time that I can celebrate in Denerim! I’m quite excited.” And Elissa was. The past years, Elissa had celebrated Wintermarch in Highever or had arrived in Denerim just as the festivities were concluding. Even then, business had been Elissa’s priority, she had never really taken the opportunity to simply enjoy herself. 

“Perhaps we could go to the theatre again? Would Ser Cauthrien join us as well?” Elissa asked, with a glance back to the knight who stood a little way away, not intruding on their conversation. Anora gestured to a stone bench that was relatively dry, a thick canopy of tall bush and trees providing a natural shelter for the spot.

“That is a lovely idea, I would love too. I’m sure Cauthrien would as well, if time permits with her schedule.” Anora reached out and took Elissa’s hand in hers, giving it a fond squeeze.

“And the King? How are things progressing there?” Elissa flushed at Anora’s teasing question. Not entirely sure how to answer it. Instead, she busied herself by arranging her skirts in trying find an answer for Anora.

Letters had been exchanged with Alistair, more so much brief letters of query or informing him of their arrival in Denerim as was custom rather than ones of a personal nature. He hadn’t asked if she could write to him and Elissa hadn’t been able to muster the courage too ask such a personal thing either, lest it be received with offence.

But on the other hand, Alistair always seemed to be taking the opportunity to escort her about, taking her arm in his when they idled about the palace together. The King also made a point to sit beside her at dinner parties when he wasn’t seated at the head of the table. It was these moments that confused Elissa the most, so she had simply decided that she would enjoy the attention and not push the boundaries of propriety anymore than they already had.

All of this, Elissa divulged to Anora and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Anora listened attentively, patting her hand in encouragement when Elissa explained her confusion and insecurities; unsure if the King returned her attraction or if he was simply slipping into the role of an attentive and caring friend.

“There is certainly attraction there at least. A king has to etiquette to follow when courting a lady.” Anora began and Elissa listened intently, soaking up every word. “And whilst there are some kings that do not care for such etiquette, in this case it would be important for King Alistair to follow them.” Elissa frowned then, not voicing her burning question of: _why doesn’t he just make his intentions clear then?_

Instead, Elissa moved stray leaves around with her feet.

“This is all especially confusion, no wonder you’re unsure how to move and speak.” Anora said, a frown marring her pretty features. Elissa felt some relief at hearing that, knowing that she hadn’t overstepped at all. Not knowing the King’s thoughts and feelings on the matter made it difficult to know _how_ to approach the situation that she was finding herself in. Alistair was a man, but he was also a King and Elissa couldn’t forget the distinction. 

“I wonder then, what was the nonsense with the Viscountess then?” Anora pondered.

Elissa’s brow furrowed at that. _Nonsense with the Viscountess?_ She wondered, waiting for Anora to go into more detail. When she didn’t elaborate and her frown remained affixed, Elissa gave into her curiosity. “What are you talking about?” She probed.

Anora turned to fully to face Elissa, troubled. “I’m sorry Elissa, I thought you would have already heard.” Anora began and Elissa sat, waiting patiently for her friend to elaborate even further.

“The other night, the Viscountess and the King were seen hand in hand. And later, the Viscountess accompanied the King back to his quarters.” Anora told Elissa gently.

The confusing turmoil welled within her as hurt chorused through Elissa. She had no claim to the King of Ferelden – Alistair. Nor had he made a claim on her and yet, she had dared to think, to hope that perhaps Alistair liked _her_. Not Lady Elissa Cousland, survivor of the Highever massacre. No, Elissa had dared to think that Alistair Therin liked _Elissa_. She had fooled herself into thinking something that wasn’t there, her humiliation complete with the knowledge that in thinking such things, she had _acted_ the part of a love-sick fool. 

It certainly explained the Viscountess’s coldness towards Elissa, how she had maintained a careful, coldly polite distance despite Elissa’s efforts. _Had Alistair and the Viscountess laughed about her when they were alone together?_ Such questions rushed through her mind, one after the other, unrelenting and each more self-debilitating than the last.

Anora sat there silently, carefully stroking Elissa’s hand in a soothing gesture. Apart from Fergus, it seemed that Elissa could only trust Anora. Her other friends hadn’t even spoke of such rumours, knowing as they did about the attraction Elissa had for the King. That fact alone was heartbreaking itself. It was too much to think, to process. Elissa had played _herself_ , not just to the King, but to the other ladies who Elissa called “friends”. _What would mother think, to see the mess that I’ve gotten myself into?_ Elissa despaired. She was an embarrassment to the Cousland name, she could already imagine Fergus’s disappointment in her.

With a stifled sob, Elissa buried her head into her hands and began to cry.

*** * * * * * * * * ***

Marian Hawke glared at the letter stamped with the Kirkwall crest. She was stupid to think that now she was in Ferelden, they would give her a semblance of peace and leave her be. Afterall, hadn’t Bran given her concise instructions on what she was to achieve whilst in Ferelden? Not that it mattered, she hadn’t actually given the King of Ferelden a reason to want to forge a permanent political alliance with Kirkwall. Picking up her glass of whiskey, Marian took a long gulp for courage and picked up the envelope, holding the letter between thumb and forefingers as if it would poison her from touch alone.

Marian wasn’t half wrong for looking at the letter with a sinking feeling of trepidation. 

The letter waffled on, reminding Marian of her duty to Kirkwall and of what she needed to achieve. The consequences were damning and simple if she failed in this simple objective. Even now, despite what Meredith had done to Kirkwall, the city’s elite still saw fit to maintain their faith in the Templar Order. With a harsh curse, Marian realized that she had perpetuated that continuing faith by combining the city-guard rotation with the templars to boost numbers. It had been necessity to ensure Kirkwall’s security and reintegrate the templars into the wider community. To show that there was no need for suspicion and divide in maintaining law and order in Kirkwall.

Another decision that had backfired on her, like the rest of her life it seemed.

The brief reprieve that Ferelden had bought Marian was running out and, Marian found that that she would be sorry to leave Denerim. She would return to Kirkwall unmarried and unsuccessful and would be forced to suffer the consequences. Another victim to the politicking game. 

Dropping the letter onto the table that was her current makeshift-desk, Marian nursed her whiskey even as she glared at the letter that sit innocently on the tabletop.

Marian had divulged little of the series of events that had led Marian to Ferelden in the first place. The King had been the one to try and show his trustworthiness by sharing information that would have found him in a tricky spot, if Marian was one of those people. Marian had learnt that most people only existed and worked to benefit themselves, she possessed little trust in most people because of hard lessons learnt. Yet where Alistair Therin was concerned, Marian saw only a patient kindness. He offered her much without expecting anything in return.

It pained her to admit that she continuously searched for the catch his words, only to find the King of Ferelden nothing but genuine and Marian was grateful for that.

It was why she had insisted on the King sneaking out of the palace with her. The night away from obligations had been her attempt to show her gratitude and it had been a fun night. In Denerim, amongst his people King Alistair was in his element. Marian had ceased to be the Viscountess of Kirkwall, she was his unnamed escort, there to ensure his safety. Later, when they had lay down to escape the cold and wait out the night, Alistair had fallen asleep first. His hand had rested on her shoulder, hot and reassuring. She’d laid there, fighting tired eyes and the reassuring of Alistair’s hand had reminded of the times she had fallen asleep beside Bethany. Looking at the sleeping King, Marian had selfishly taken once again and had fallen asleep alongside him. 

The letter from Kirkwall was a reminder, a slap in the face that she would do or die. Yet, she still hesitated.

Marian saw the burgeoning affection building between Alistair and Elissa Cousland. It was why she had decided to keep her distance; not wanting to unwittingly get in the way of the woman that Alistair had seemingly singled out to be his true Queen. Not only that, but Elissa had reminded Marian of her own younger sister and it had seemed even more pertinent that she not get involved lest she ruin something – someone – else too. 

Still considering her options, which was alarmingly few now, Marian finished her drink and immediately leaned forward to pour another. Marian was out of ideas; she couldn’t see any way forward that would allow her to escape from the control of Kirkwall.

 _You could try telling him the truth_. A tauntingly familiar voice whispered in her mind.

She could tell Alistair the truth, of how Kirkwall’s nobility had sought to control her rule of Kirkwall. Marian could explain how she had resisted their manipulations and exposed them for vile human-beings that they were. Marian could explain how they had manoeuvred her into a position of weakness which they had then exploited unflinchingly. 

She could tell him of the ultimatum that they had given her.

Still, Marian contemplated other solutions – if there were any – sorely missing Varric and Aveline’s council when she needed it the most. They wouldn’t even know that Bran and the noble houses of Kirkwall had sent this letter, with a long list of signatures at the bottom designed to intimidate her.

 _It didn’t_.

Belatedly, she wished that she had appointed someone as a proper caretaker to Kirkwall in her absence, rather than allowing Bran the continued opportunity to undermine her place and power to try and govern Kirkwall.

 _There’s no way out_. The voice was utterly damning.

Marian finished her drink, with desperate gulps for courage. She would have to tell Alistair the truth, the whole of it – from the pathetic start to the damning finish. Marian would make him understand what Marian was truly up against. 

Letter crushed into her fist, she walked purposely from her quarters, making for the King’s office where she knew Alistair would likely be. Marian found Alistair sitting in his office, sipping on a whiskey of his own. Even with the open door, Marian still knocked brusquely, wanting to get this conversation over and done with so she could return to her quarters and slip into a quiet oblivion in relative privacy. 

Alistair greeted her with a friendly smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and gestured to the chair opposite him. Brow furrowed, unsure of what exactly was wrong, Marian seated herself.

The King of Ferelden regarded – _stared_ – at Marian, drinking in the sight of her. Marian shifted uncomfortably under the sudden scrutiny. She opened her mouth, struggling to decide just where to start her pathetic sob story, _because that’s what it was_ , but Alistair beat her to the punch: 

“Marian Hawke, Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall. Would you agree to an alliance between Kirkwall and Ferelden?”

Dumbly, Marian watched as Alistair Therin stood and crossed around his desk to where she sat and sunk down to one knee. Her eye twitched at the sight of seeing Alistair kneeled before her with resignation in his eyes. Marian Hawke was no genius, nor had she formulated bilateral agreements with another country: that’s what she had more apt and experienced, if corrupted people for, but a King did not beseech a lowly Viscountess.

Alistair repeated his question. 

A strangled noise emitted from Marian’s throat. “Yes.” She answered hoarsely.

Brow furrowed with determination; the resignation strong – _why was the King of Ferelden resigned?_ Marian questioned. Alistair touched her hand hesitantly. 

“Hawke, unconventional as this is. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife and the Queen of Ferelden?”

 _Fuck_.


	11. Part II: Chapter Ten: To Asseverate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply in this chapter. 
> 
> Fun fact: "stranger's gallery" is the former term for the visitor's gallery to view parliamentary proceedings in the British House of Commons. Traditionally, the name denotes the presence of people in parliament that aren't members or parliamentary staff. Today it's simply the "visitors' gallery". 
> 
> I hope you enjoy my telling of a staple of Ferelden governance: the Landsmeet.

**Asseverate:** declare or state solemnly (or emphatically). 

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

Alistair Therin, King of Ferelden was kneeling beside her – _her_ – Marian Hawke. Marian could also have sworn that this same King of Ferelden had just asked Marian to marry him. _Her_. 

The letter was still bunched tightly in her first, her story a jumble of words in her mind. _The truth_.

_Hawke…will you do me the honour of becoming my wife and the Queen of Ferelden?_

Alistair’s may as well as shouted his proposal.

But even as Marian considered her impossible situation in Kirkwall and the strict terms that she had been given… her instructions from the supposed powers that be had been clear. There was nothing that could be done, nor even enough time to formulate a response that could possible appease Carrac’s pride. Nothing permanent short of sticking a knife through his heart wouldn’t fix at least. No, involving Alistair – involving _Ferelden_ – could only end in some sort of international incident that no one wanted to deal with.

Alistair was still kneeling next to her, waiting for Marian’s answer, deceptively calm. Going to the fireplace, Marian stared into the flames and wished that she could throw herself in there and be done with all of this.

Eventually, Marian thought of something that she could say. “You should stand up; your knees aren’t going to be so forgiving if you stay like that.” Marian suggested casually, speaking over her shoulder. 

There was movement behind her, and Marian wondered if Alistair had at least stood, if not sat down and made himself more comfortable; more comfortable than kneeling like a romantic idiot at least. Marian hadn’t exactly tried to win the King of Ferelden over and she had seen that Alistair was as reluctant as she had been to fulfil the terms that solidified an alliance between Ferelden and Kirkwall. The offer to give her an out was just the first of many kindness’s that Alistair had offered Marian and she appreciated it, much more than he could realize.

_Something has changed, why?_ Questions raced through her mind and Marian tried to puzzle it all out as the heat from the fire caressed her face. Her throat was parched and a headache had begun pounding at the front of her forehead. Craving a drink to sate her sudden thirst, Marian turned on her heel and seeing Alistair, she knew what question she needed to ask. 

“Those people trying to unseat you, did you ever discover who they were?”

There was a flash of bitterness and hurt, betrayal. Marian was far too familiar with that familiar sting of it. “Yes. They were a lot closer to me than I realized.” Alistair said in a clipped tone and Marian let out a tired sigh. She had promised to help Alistair with this and obviously had been successful. What Marian didn’t like was that she had contributed to this bitterness and she found that she didn’t like her role in this at all.

“Does Arl Eamon still think that I’m the ‘untouchable solution’?” 

“Of course. He’s also taken a liking to you, you were right.” Hawke’s brows raised in surprise. She had merely joked that Eamon Guerrin liked her. Alistair would have been chastised by his regent for going gallivanting about Denerim when it had been her idea in the first place.

Marian had waited for Alistair to call on her for lunch, but he hadn’t sent for her. She hadn’t been offended, obviously Eamon Guerrin’s lecture had been harsher than they both had thought it would be. Business and other activities had kept Marian busy over the next few days and hadn’t thought much of the fact that Alistair had been more absent than she had become used to. Now that a _marriage proposal_ had left his lips and was hanging awkwardly in the air between them, everything suddenly made sense. 

“We are barely friends; are you are okay with that?” It sounded harsh, even to Marian. Yet she still asked the question. If someone asked her if she and the King were friends, she wouldn’t know what her answer would be. Allies first and foremost, yes. But friends?

_Friends was a stretch of the imagination,_ Marian thought. _We fucked once and that’s ancient history._

Marian recalled how Alistair had fallen asleep beside her, his hand on her shoulder. How he would ask her a question that touched on something personal and wouldn’t expect an honest answer. Or how Alistair would weather Marian being difficult just because she could be. At some point, Marian realized, Alistair had started treating her as a friend and all Marian could do was continue to take and take and relish in her own guilty bitterness. 

“You have my friendship Hawke, if you want it.”

_Maker help me, I’m a selfish bitch._

Alistair took a few tentative steps forward. He had crossed his arms over his chest and a frown was etched firmly in place. Alistair was waiting for her decision and Marian still didn’t know which questions to ask so she _could_ make a wise decision. Even if the obvious answer was practically smacking her in the face. _Accept and half your problems are solved, for the moment at least._

“And what about your lady?” Marian figured she should at least ask about Elissa Cousland. Alistair’s frown became a puzzled one.

“There is no other lady. What are you talking about?” Another misapprehension that Marian had been labouring under apparently.

Shaking her head, Marian turned back to the fireplace and threw the letter from Kirkwall into the flames. She watched the parchment curl into black ashes as the flames gobbled at the new fuel. The obvious answer was staring right at her, but it wasn’t so simple. 

“You can walk over the bridge, or you can burn it.” Marian muttered. It was an old anecdote of her mother’s, said whenever Marian had had a particularly intense argument with Carver. The two siblings shared a stubborn streak that was miles wide and yet, Marian had always been the one who had been forced to make keep the peace. The duty of the older sister was how Marian had always looked at it. Now, Marian had to wonder if there wasn’t some other logic to that statement that Leandra Hawke had never explained to her. 

Alistair stepped up to the fireplace, standing close to Marian. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you find it strange the places you’ll end up through the people you meet?” 

Alistair considered her question. “Is this before or after you threaten them with a knife?” Marian snorted at the reminder, bumping playfully into Alistair’s side. He returned the gesture in kind and Marian bumped him again. They continued like this in easy silence for a bit, before stilling.

“You have my friendship, if you’ll have it.” Marian echoed Alistair’s words, feeling particularly vulnerable. Past experience told her that she would regret this, but Marian tried to ignore the very real doubts. Alistair didn’t say anything, not that she expected him too. Warm fingers curled around her cool ones and Marian flinched at the unexpected contact.

Staring down at their joined hands, Marian looked up at Alistair. There was that echo of familiar comfort again. _This is the right thing for_ me, Marian told herself even when instinct told her to run away from it all and not look back. That had been an option that she had refused to entertain since the very beginning, she wouldn’t let anyone bully her out of Kirkwall. When she left, it would be on her own terms and it was bound to be violent.

Marian let out a defeated sigh. There was no way around it.

“Fuck it. Okay – yes.” Alistair squeezed her hand in reassurance.

“Is there a formal answer when a King asks you to marry them?” Alistair shrugged and let go of Marian’s hand to tap his lips suggestively.

That Maker damned smirk had returned, and Marian scoffed as she rolled her eyes at his antics. 

“Does the sleezy old man act actually work?” Marian asked, brow raised. Alistair quirked his brow in response. “I’m not sure, is it working?” Marian took a dramatic step away from the King. Despite the seriousness of the moment, Marian couldn’t help but laugh. Stepping back towards Alistair, whiskey eyes stared into clouded blue eyes and the moment of humour was gone.

“I’ll announce our engagement at the Landsmeet. Things will move quickly then – the sooner we’re married, the sooner you will be coronated and…” Alistair stopped his nervous blabbering with a sheepish look. The headache had really set in now and Marian sunk into the closest seat, feeling suddenly exhausted.

“I need to inform Kirkwall of this…development.”

Alistair stayed standing, taking Marian’s position by the fireplace. “Eamon will want to sit down and discuss the formalities of this arrangement. After the Landsmeet though.” Alistair added as an afterthought, staring into the flames. 

Marian answered by putting her head in her hands, staring at Alistair. “We’ll get through this together, friend.” He attempted to comfort her.

Despite herself, she smiled around her hands. “Does old man Alistair need a friend?” Alistair turned away from the fireplace towards her with a chuckle.

Against her better judgement, Marian pushed herself out of her seat and joined Alistair at the fireplace. Alistair didn’t pull away when Marian reached for his hand. A companionable silence fell over them, there was nothing more to say to one another. 

*** * * * * * * * * ***

The Landsmeet was an open forum, where the people of Ferelden could witness decisions and debates engaged by the vassals for the betterment of Ferelden. Historically, the Landsmeet had been closed to the public, legislative matters were for the lords and ladies only. That had changed with the conclusion of the first Ferelden civil war, when the Bannorn had universally agreed that a monarch with the likes of Arland Therin would never see the throne of Ferelden again.

Following the First Civil War was the introduction of key pieces of legislation that not only made the Crown accountable to the Bannorn, but to the people of Ferelden itself. The Landsmeet would be held accountable from that moment onwards. The aptly named _Strangers’ gallery_ had since entertained Ferelden’s commonfolk through to visiting diplomats. One didn’t need a freehold or own a parcel of land to stand and watch the governance of Ferelden no longer. With this new transparency, came increased politicking. Banns had used the gallery to impede the introduction of legislation, drawn out deliberations on legislation and even protested the monarchy itself.

For Anora, it was the first time that she would set foot in the _Strangers’ gallery_. It was one thing to attend the Landsmeet as a representative of Gwaren or standing in her rightful place as the Queen of Ferelden, but never had Anora seen the gallery packed with people as it was for this particular Landsmeet. 

Anora had dressed for the occasion in a simple but elegant powdered-blue gown in the fusion Ferelden-Orlais style that was the current fashion. Her fair hair that was flecked with silver was pulled out of her face, but the long tresses were left loose. It was Anora’s own small statement for those who saw her when the King stood to make his long-awaited announcement on who would be Queen: the true Queen of Ferelden still stood amongst her people and she was listening.

Despite the crowded gallery, Anora was able to claim one of the few seats. Most of the attendants were the daughters of the Bann’s that stood below them, wanting to hear the King’s choice at the exact moment of announcement. The mood of the feast that evening would largely be determined by the King’s announcement.

But first: matters of king and country. 

Anora would be lying if she said that she missed summarizing a year of agricultural reports into a concise, brief statement for the purposes of the Landsmeet. On the years where the harvest had been plentiful, it was relatively straightforward, yet when the yield was poor and the Crown saw it necessary to incur debt to ensure food for the country, matters became complicated. Anora wouldn’t miss analysing the state of Ferelden’s treasury. 

With her exile, Anora had been denied returning to her home of Gwaren one last time. As Queen of Ferelden, Anora had always returned home to the manor at least once a year. The denial had stung, making her sick with bitterness. Even now, years later the pangs of homesickness were strong and left her bedridden when they were at their worse.

Cauthrien had once offered to travel to Gwaren, to bring back tokens and news of the home that Anora had lost, or to deliver letters. Anora had declined both ideas, thinking it better for her to forget the fishing capital of the terynir that was her childhood home. But such a feat was easier said than done. Anora didn’t know the fate of the Terynir of Gwaren and at the time of her exile, she hadn’t wanted to know.

The King’s decision to sweep Anora under the rug – so to speak – was damning in Anora’s eyes. A fate, that she had considered likely for the Terynir of Gwaren too. Once, Anora had contemplated Gwaren’s likely fate: a territory divided and reduced. The once former might of the Terynir of Gwaren reduced to a bannorn with the marks of its former glory, it’s vast and abundant forests given into the care of South Reach. Or like Amaranthine, where the arling had been entrusted – foolishly – to someone else. But unlike the Arling of Amaranthine, the idea of a firm supporter of King Alistair governing Gwaren left a too bitter taste in Anora’s mouth. 

Eamon Guerrin’s call for Tressa Vingoe, Teryna of Gwaren to stand before the Landsmeet had Anora sitting straighter in her seat and her hand flying to her mouth in astonishment.

The daughter of the Bann of Land’s End, Tressa Vingoe was the last person that Anora would have imagined having been slated to become teryna. It wasn’t that Anora disliked the teryna, just that Anora barely remembered the woman despite the number of times she had visited Land’s End with her father. Anora couldn’t help but be impressed with the mature set of the raven-haired Teryna’s shoulders. But with that impression came a morning concerning thought – _what had happened to her older brothers?_

Anora couldn’t remember ever seeing Tressa at the last feast that Anora had managed to attend, though there could have been a number of reasons why the Teryna hadn’t been in attendance. As Tressa wrapped up her report, it was reassuring to hear that whoever had placed the terynir into the capable hands of the Vingoe family had made the right choice. Anora knew that the blight hadn’t been kind to the south-west of Ferelden and Gwaren had been affected. Through the careful guidance of Tressa Vingoe, the Terynir of Gwaren was _thriving_. The relief of the state of Gwaren was overwhelming and Anora discretely wiped away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. 

After kingdom reports, came discussions of national importance.

Strong maintenance of Ferelden’s borders, particularly those shared with Orlais on the north-west side of Ferelden was always a priority. It was common knowledge – a common concern – that Orlais continued to test Ferelden’s mettle post-blight. As Ferelden scrambled to gain a foothold post-blight, Orlais constantly battered to regain its influence. On this issue, the Crown announced that Orlesian attempts to enter Ferelden by force were still on-going and recommended troops being sent to strongholds in the Frostback Mountains. 

Anora knew such announcements were carefully considered statements designed to be heard by friend and enemy of Ferelden alike. When it came to matters of security of Ferelden, it was a tricky issue to navigate when it was a requirement of the Crown to report back to the Ferelden People. The hard to answer question of what information would or wouldn’t compromise Ferelden if given to the People was one often debated. In this instance, Anora had to reluctantly admire the Crown’s stance, as annoying as it was to admit. The Crown had made a statement which could have been anything from a one-off response to a routine training exercise. The truth was concealed, known only by those who needed to know.

From there the discussion turned from security to finances and then trade.

A trade alliance had been signed with Kirkwall, giving Ferelden a foothold into the Free Marches hold over the Waking Sea trade routes. To Anora, the move reeked of desperation on Kirkwall’s part; no one would forget Kirkwall’s role in the mage uprisings and Kirkwall would suffer its role for decades with reduced prospects. It was a smart move by Ferelden to try and fracture the trade monopoly that the Free Marches held over the Waking Sea. Another decision made by the King of Ferelden that Anora reluctantly admitted was a move that would strategically benefit Ferelden in the future.

The announcement also explained why the Viscountess of Kirkwall was in Denerim for as long as she had been. Trade was as good of a reason as any to consider negotiations Kirkwall, even one that had rocked the world as they knew it. Negotiating trade terms was a headache and a half, but that the Viscountess of Kirkwall had made the journey to Denerim, was a commitment in itself and only affirmed the belief that Kirkwall was desperate.

The Viscountess herself was conspicuously absent from the Landsmeet. Anora hadn’t seen the visiting ruler with her own eyes, but descriptions had reached Anora’s dining room. As a visiting ruler, the Viscountess of Kirkwall would have the seat of honour beside the King’s throne for the Landsmeet. Curiously – unprecedently even, it was empty. There could have been any number of reasons why the Viscountess wasn’t in attendance, but that was not the norm. What was equally interesting was the chair to the left, vacant and familiar: The seat of the Queen of Ferelden. That seat was the reason why every noble and his daughters were crowded in the gallery, impatiently awaiting the King’s announcement. 

Anora remembered at her first Landsmeet, called after Maric’s disappearance and before her marriage to Cailan. Though the betrothal with Cailan was common knowledge, Anora had still been presented to that particular Landsmeet as Ferelden’s future Queen after Cailan had been assured as heir apparent to Ferelden. She had sat in the seat reserved for a queen, waiting to be presented. Waiting to be presented was as far as Anora knew unusual if not uncommon at least.

The absence of the visiting viscountess _and_ the King’s betrothed was certainly lending to the drama.

Across the hall Elissa was standing with her older brother, united in their representation of Highever. Since their conversation in the gardens, Anora hadn’t seen her since. Elissa had sent a note thanking Anora for her frankness and honesty. The groundwork for been laid for Elissa to approach the King and act on her attraction, Anora needed Elissa to step out on her own and take the necessary actions. So Anora had left Elissa be, pressing her further on this matter wasn’t wise. Anora’s success was in Elissa’s capable hands and she knew that Elissa would be successful. 

Elissa was stunning in the burgundy and lavender gown that she wore. Slashes decorated the bodice; the sleeves were detachable and showed the simple patterns on the chemise that was underneath. The dress was distinctly Ferelden in style – refreshing to look at in the sea of Orlesian fashion opulence. Her hair was left to cascade loosely down her back. With her shoulders set back confidently and her hands linked behind her back, Anora couldn’t help but be over-confident. This, Anora reflected was why the Queen’s chair was still empty. Elissa was standing with Highever before she severed her claim to the terynir and officially accepted the King’s proposal.

Anora shifted in her seat this time from anticipation when country matters were concluded. Now, banns were able ask questions and discuss issues with the peers. They could be directed questions or statements that prompted discussion. Fifteen years ago, Cailan had stood and advocated for his kingship through the Therin blood line whilst the banns screamed their support for Bryce Cousland. Ironic really, that Anora would have his daughter claim the throne. Now it was just a matter of when the King would stand and make his announce.

Anora didn’t have long to wait. 

The King announced that he had a matter of importance to address with the Landsmeet. The soft, respective murmur of discussion all but came to a halt. Everyone in the gallery had finally fallen silent in anticipation. A quick glance to where Elissa stood revealed no telling reaction and it only seemed to confirm Anora’s suspicions. Elissa had finally made her gamble and she had been rewarded for it; Anora had been rewarded for it. 

King Alistair Therin began to speak. First a statement, which was more of a snide half-apology to the lords and ladies of the Landsmeet – designed to supplicate those who had opposed Alistair’s sole rule and demanded for a Queen and an heir. Much to Anora’s chagrin, it was delivered with a grace that Anora didn’t know the King was capable of expressing. After this statement, the King moved to speaking of the qualities that he looked for in a Queen, of a woman who would be worthy to govern Ferelden. Another well played ploy on the King’s part, appealing to Ferelden nationalism to sway the people to accept the lady that the King had chosen. 

Anora shifted minutely, whispers had erupted around her now, speculating on _who_ the mysterious lady was. From what the King had said, she was Ferelden-born – already a small victory for the King’s harshest of critics. Anora shifted her gaze back to Elissa, who had stepped closer to her brother, there was a hint of uncertainty in her manner now as the King came to his conclusion. His words echoed throughout the great hall, layered over the undercurrent of whispering. Behind her, two ladies giggled garishly. Anora wriggled again in her seat.

“May I introduce Marian Hawke, Viscountess of Kirkwall.” Alistair Therin’s voice rang throughout the hall as the doors opened.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall walked amongst the lords and ladies of Ferelden, clad in pointed ceremonial armour that gleamed under watery sunlight. On the chest plate, the emblem of Kirkwall stood out from burnished metal with blood-red lacquered metal. Anora watched with revulsion as the Viscountess came to a stop before the King and bowed low. There were whispers, of the Viscountess’s similarity to Queen Rowan and the King’s grandmother – the Rebel Queen. Both strong women who had led Ferelden to greatness in times of strife.

The Viscountess accepted the King’s proffered hand, to the applause of the Landsmeet. From the people that Anora could count on, the applause came with less enthusiasm than others. A quick glance at Elissa, showed a coldness that Anora hadn’t seen on the younger woman’s face before. There at least, Anora may be able to salvage the situation.

_Well played Alistair, but you’re still a bastard_. Anora thought ruthlessly.

*** * * * * * * * * ***

The Landsmeet was done, arguably, the hardest part of the day was finally over. With Hawke’s hand in his, Alistair all but ran from the hall. The doors were still open behind them and they couldn’t fully drop the charade just yet. Hawke squeezed his hand reassuringly. “There’s still time before the feast. Drink?” She asked cautiously.

Alistair didn’t have to think twice. “Reckon we can finish a bottle before the feast?”

Hawke’s challenging grin was infectious. But it wouldn’t do to turn up to the feast, which was essentially the celebration of their engagement intoxicated. Alistair stopped Hawke with a gentle tug on her hand. “Just _one_ bottle.” He emphasised. 

“Yes, _mother_.” Hawke snipped.

They retreated to Alistair’s office, where Hawke immediately began peeling herself out of cumbersome armour whilst Alistair locked themselves inside. When Alistair turned around, she was sitting easily in stained trousers and a thing undershirt. Strips of fabric were wrapped around her forearms, likely to ease the chafing from the heavy gauntlets that she wore.

Alistair pulled out two glasses and handed the bottle to Hawke. Plunking the glasses down on the table, Alistair sat himself down in the chair that was usually reserved for Teagan as Hawke splashed whiskey into their glasses.

Picking up her glass Hawke swirled its contents, looking mesmerised how the light lit up the golden liquid within. Alistair cleared his throat and Hawke looked up. 

“A toast?” Alistair proposed and Hawke nodded. The two wordlessly clinked their glasses together and threw back the contents of their drink in one decided gulp. Without prompting, Hawke plucked the bottle back up and poured them another nip for them both. 

“There were a lot of surprised faces in there.” Hawke commented idly. Alistair nodded and sipped his whiskey at a more sedate pace than his betrothed opposite him.

The reception to his announcement had been far more positive than what Alistair could have anticipated. Eamon had been careful to ensure that Hawke was presented in the best of light as possible. Then Hawke had spoken up, suggesting that she enter the Landsmeet only when Alistair had spoken her name. Alistair hadn’t been sure about such a move, it broke with Landsmeet tradition. Eamon reluctantly agreeing with the idea was very much like seeing a fish out of water. 

It had been the right move though.

Hawke was a powerful vision when she strode into the Landsmeet. The Kirkwall armour that she wore was stark and dangerous – a contrast to what was seen in Ferelden. Alistair had heard the stories of his grandmother Queen Moira, and he had heard anecdotes of Queen Rowan – his deceased sort of aunt from Eamon and Teagan both. Storming into the Landsmeet the way she had; Hawke had presented herself not only as a capable leader but reminded Ferelden of the strong warrior queens that had preceded her. Hawke had taken all these whispers and eyes without breaking her stride and she had squeezed Alistair’s hand back in reassurance – like she was used to causing such spectacles amongst the nobility.

Forgoing propriety, Alistair finished his drink. Silently, Hawke leaned forward and poured him another. “I will have to return to Kirkwall _before_ we marry.” Hawke announced.

Alistair nodded slowly; he knew that Hawke would eventually need to return. Alistair had briefly – _very briefly_ – entertained the notion of travelling to Kirkwall with her. There’s always strength in numbers as they say, and Alistair felt that Hawke needed someone firmly in her corner.

“If you return before we marry, I won’t be able to come with you. I’ll need to stay here.” 

“If you’re worried that I’m going to skip out on you, don’t be. I agreed to this and I’ll see it through.”

Alistair took a sip of his drink. “I was more concerned that you were going to miss me”

Hawke smirked as she patted Alistair’s hand condescendingly. “I will weep every night we are parted, my dearly beloved.” Alistair snorted, Hawke’s jesting lightening his morose mood.

Hawke tipped back her glass, finishing her drink. “Svea will be waiting to dress me in something a little more feast-y. She’s a little scary sometimes, you know. She insisted that armour and feasts aren’t the status quo in Ferelden.” Standing, Hawke cast an unimpressed glare at the armour pieces that she’d left scattered on the floor. Alistair hauled himself out of his chair, intending to accompany Hawke back to her quarters.

Before he could unlock the door, Hawke had pushed him back into his seat and poured another nip of whiskey. “Have this. You’ll need it for the feast tonight. Trust me.” Hawke told Alistair, she patted him on the shoulder.

“They’re going to eat you alive tonight. Liquid courage will go a long way.” Sound advice from Hawke – she wasn’t wrong. Alistair could barely recall a time since his own coronation where his every move wasn’t carefully scrutinised.

Alistair let out a tired sigh and Hawke patted him on the shoulder. “You get used to this you know.” Hawke told him, that tired understanding was haunting her eyes again. “I’ll meet you outside the hall.” She finished before leaving Alistair to his thoughts.

Finishing his drink, Alistair was soon left with his thoughts. So, Alistair changed into the waiting ruby doublet with gold top-stitching and dark trousers. After that, the need to keep himself busy had him wandering about the palace, making a concentrated effort to not get lost in his thoughts.

Which was how Alistair ended up in the library.

Whenever Alistair was preoccupied with his thoughts, he always ended up in the library. Sometimes it was easier to get lost in a book than to dwell on everything else going wrong in your life.

Without thinking he made for his usual spot, only to find it occupied by Elissa. Alistair didn’t mind so much that it was Elissa that would disturb his moment of quiet. Over the last year Alistair had come to value the unexpected friendship that came with knowing her. He’d refused to allow Anora to overshadow that friendship. True, it meant that Alistair had to be wary of what he said and did – a precaution born out of paranoia rather than necessity.

Alistair had seen little of Elissa over the last few weeks. Though Elissa had been in Denerim, she had declined his invitations for dinner and lunch. Alistair had put it down to being busy with teryn business – there was always something to attend too – but when Elissa had declined his invitation to participate in a hunt outside of Denerim, Alistair knew something was wrong.

More than that, Elissa looked _tired_. 

“Can I join you?” Alistair asked. Elissa looked up from her musings, jumping up and dropping into a curtsey. Alistair wasn’t sure what to make of the sudden show of propriety, despite him indicating that formalities weren’t needed. 

“Your grace, of course.” Alistair’s frown deepened.

Not wanting to question the sudden use of formalities, Alistair instead sunk into the empty armchair that was next to Elissa’s and stared up at the decorated roof. Every time he looked up at the painted ceiling, there was always some new detail to be picked out. Today though, Alistair couldn’t find a new detail to marvel over. The terse silence turned into an uncomfortable one. Elissa, Alistair had discovered was capable of filling a silent room with idle chatter that would engage anyone. She didn’t wish to talk, which Alistair found to be somewhat unusual for her. 

“The Viscountess was a fierce sight.” Elissa finally offered up. 

“I will admit, the shocked expressions from some of the Bannorn made the melodramatics worth it.” Alistair admitted with a light chuckle. A brief, yet weak smile was his reward for his admission.

“And you are happy with your bride to be?” Elissa queried. Alistair thought he heard the briefest wobble of emotion in her tone.

Hawke and Alistair had formed a personal alliance of their own, first to try and expose Anora’s little web that she had spun around him. It hadn’t worked, though it had certainly ruffled some feathers. Alistair had been as frank with Hawke for his reasons to go forward with the marriage, but Hawke had yet to voice hers. What little she had offered up however, did not paint a pleasant picture for the Viscountess. Alistair would even venture to say that she was in as sticky a position as Alistair had found himself in. The only way they could get through this, Alistair had suggested was to work together – hence their little alliance.

Considering all this, Alistair finally answered Elissa’s question: “Hawke will be good for Ferelden.” Elissa fixed knowing eyes on him. Alistair shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable in the turn in conversation.

Elissa fiddled with the ring that she wore on her right hand, twisting it back and forth. “That is not the right answer. There will be benefits for Ferelden to be sure. But what about you?” 

Alistair appreciated the fact that Elissa had even asked him such a thing. Even if beginning to find a vague answer was a challenge in itself.

Eamon and Teagan worked without emotion, a required trait when it came to matters of king and country. As advisors, it was their job to think in the best interests for Ferelden. Personal feelings were simply a casualty in achieving that end. Fergus had offered an insight that had been comforting a year ago when all of this had been set in motion. Yet it had only been Hawke and Elissa who were the ones considering what it was that _he_ wanted. Alistair shifted forward in his seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Alistair had learnt the hard lesson of dwelling on _what ifs_ and _could haves_.

It was all consuming at its worse, a harsh reminder of things that could be done differently. But there were no do-overs. His childhood was difficult, branded from birth with the title of _bastard_. Yet despite no recognition from his father, Alistair had found his way to the throne. Eamon enlisting him into the Order had led him to the Grey Wardens, which had led him to _her_. Three escaped apostates had taken him to Kirkwall, which had transpired to him accepting Hawke as his betrothed. Alistair had never been one to consider himself fatalistic, yet there was clearly an unfolding theme with events in his life. It was better to go along with it than to resist it.

Yet Alistair broke his own rule as he looked at Elissa Cousland. Wondering what could have been if he had chosen her, despite it all. It was a pretty scene, reminiscent of the daydreams that he had entertained during he blight. Elissa would have been a gracious and caring queen, a skilled administrator who the people adored for her sweetness. With Elissa, Fergus’s words of wisdom would have rung true: affection _would_ be built as the years passed. 

A soft hand tentatively touched his and Alistair started, being yanked from his thoughts. Uncertainly, Elissa took Alistair’s hand in hers. It was warm and her touch comforting, a stark difference to Hawke’s chilled fingers. Alistair looked at Elissa, really looked at her and without thinking, he reached out to push strands of wayward hair out of her face. His fingers brushed over her cheekbone, tracing down the line of her jaw and stopping at her chin. She was close, close enough that if he wished, Alistair could close the distance between them both and kiss her. To briefly live that daydream of _what if_. 

And then Alistair remembered himself and he withdrew his hand like he had been burned. A quick squeeze of Elissa’s hand before letting go and standing up. Flustered now, his cheeks red with embarrassment, Alistair gave a hurried bow.

“Forgive me, I forgot myself.” Alistair stammered out, reminiscent of the unsure man that he once was years ago.

Elissa shook her head. “There’s nothing to forgive, your grace.” She told him tenderly. Alistair tried to ignore the fact that her cheeks too were pink or how she wet her lips in unrealized nerves.

Alistair gave another hurried bow, turning on his heel and striding out of the library, trying not to dwell on the fact that instead of Elissa’s hazel eyes, he had looked into familiar, clear blue ones. 


	12. Part II: Chapter Eleven: Albatross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter. 
> 
> **Additional warning:** There is a scene of illicit drug dealing in this chapter that may not fall under current tags. Implied prostitution if you squint, but it's there. These additional warnings are for this chapter only.

**Albatross:** _A metaphor:_ a burden (often psychological), that feels like a curse. 

_Kirkwall, 9:38 Dragon_

Stepping off the ship in Kirkwall Harbour, Marian was relieved to finally be on dry land. Though the return voyage to Kirkwall was smoother, the Waking Sea wasn't always so kind. From behind her, Scout barked as she bounded down the gangplank ahead of her mistress and into the crowds. What Marian didn't expect was the bustling activity of the docks. Trade was beginning to thrive in Kirkwall once more.

Marian had refused to emerge from her cabin to watch the entry into Kirkwall Harbour. She had no desire to watch the foreboding black wall that gave the city its name tower over her. Nor, did Marian wish to allow the Twins of Kirkwall that stood at the mouth of the harbour loom over her. For Marian, the two statues had the opposite effect: that she was a slave to Kirkwall and not the other way around. Even though she had resisted the view, Marian had insisted that Svea go out on the deck. This was the first time Svea had travelled in her life and displayed a childlike excitement at travelling to Kirkwall with Marian.

It was a worrying sign that Kirkwall's Viscountess had refused to step out on deck. A disheartening quiet fell over the deck as the ship sailed into calmer waters. Marian found it hard to muster the energy to care at all.

Waiting for them on the quay was the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall with an escort of the finest guardsmen. To her left stood Bran, wearing the robes of his office with arrogance. Behind Kirkwall's seneschal stood Carrac and his cronies. Not the people that Marian wanted to see immediately after two weeks at sea. Aware of the turnout to see the Viscountess, Marian held her head high as met her waiting entourage. Behind her was Teagan with Cillian Kendry and his wife, Sile Mac Eanraig.

Cillian Kendry and his wife Sile Mac Eanraig hailed from the Storm Coast. Sile Mac Eanraig was Fergus and Elissa Cousland's second cousin on their mother's side and was a louder and more uncouth version Elissa. The husband and wife were a refreshing addition to the voyage, making the trip as Ferelden's trade ambassadors for the northern coast-ports. On one of the smoother days at sea, Marian had sat down with them both to begin preliminary negotiations and to speed up the negotiation process. Kendry, Marian discovered was a shrewd businessman with a crude sense of humour. Varric, Marian thought, would enjoy conversation with Kendry. In Sile Mac Eanraig, Marian had found an unlikely friend.

A quick check behind her showed Svea following behind the others, wonder in her eyes. Her pack was overflowing and Svea had insisted on carrying Marian's sword. Bringing up the rear was Ser Cauthrien, a capable knight that had no business serving as a lowly guard. Alistair had insisted the accomplished knight go with Marian to ensure a safe return. Marian wasn't so convinced and had prodded the King of Ferelden further on his motives. Adequate protection was vital for the future Queen of Ferelden's continued safety. Alistair had insisted this as he had talked to the letter that he was scribbling. Marian wasn't so convinced but hadn't pushed Alistair any further on the matter. The King had been on edge since the Landsmeet and Marian couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

Something had happened between the Landsmeet and the feast. Alistair had escorted Marian as they had arranged yet had refused to look at his betrothed unless the occasion called for it. Marian couldn't claim to be intimate with the King to name his moods, but his distance was peculiar, even for him. Alistair had broken this new habit only days out from Marian's departure for Kirkwall. Marian had asked if he had changed his mind, only to received fervent answers to the contrary. _There is no ill-will_ , she had said. _It’s only so I can prepare a statement sooner rather than later._ Alistair had responded with such alarm that a solider had entered the office unannounced to check on the King's continued welfare.

Aveline greeted Marian with a low bow, the remainder of the Viscountess’s unwelcoming committee following the Guard-Captain’s lead. With a solemn nod to her Guard-Captain, Marian turned her attention to Varric and exchanged a firm handshake. There would be time for reunions behind closed and locked doors. Marian turned to her Ferelden guests, making quick introductions. Teagan stepped forward and greeted Bran, the seneschal and Ferelden foreign ambassador exchanging quick pleasantries.

Proper introductions would be made to the right people, out of earshot later, when they could speak freely without fear of recourse.

Gesturing towards the dock entrance, Marian said: “I will show you our city as we make for Hightown.” Scout had returned to the entourage and it was the Mabari who set the pace, leading their group away from the busy docks. 

Carrac and his cronies were nothing more than intrusive bystanders, who Marian brushed past easily without a second look. The Viscountess of Kirkwall saw the watching dockworkers witness her blatant disregard for the Hightown nobles and a victorious smirk spread on her face. As the last of their group passed through, Marian shot a pointed look at Carrac. The man could try and puppet her every move, but it was she who was Viscountess. Despite Carrac’s best efforts, Marian still held the amount of sway that Carrac didn’t possess. Carrac thought he had won this little game of cloak and dagger, but Marian Hawke hadn’t played all of her cards. 

*** * * * * * * * * ***

Marian couldn’t remember the last time Hawke Estate was lit up and full of people. Nor could she remember the last time Marian had awoken and heard the soft echo of activity in the mansion’s kitchen, accompanied with the enticing smell of bread. It almost made the manor feel like home…almost. Nausea from the lingering seasickness still roiled in her belly, but with the sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains, it was long past the time to get out of bed. 

As Viscountess, Marian had decreed that the Ferelden delegation would be accommodated at Hawke Estate. If the Viscountess of Kirkwall refused to use the quarters at Viscount’s Keep, then no esteemed guests of hers would use those same lodgings. That was the justification she had written angrily in her letters, yet the real reason was far simpler: Marian didn’t trust one soul that walked in an official capacity in the Viscount’s Keep. Nor would she leave the Ferelden delegation to their own devices in Kirkwall. Who knew who would be dead the next morning?

That first morning, laying in bed with a full estate, Marian was glad she had made that decision. 

She idled away in bed for a little longer, musing over the day ahead and wishing that she were in Ferelden, dealing with people who at least tolerated her presence. At the foot of the bed, Scout let out a long sigh, snuffling in her sleep. Downstairs, Marian could hear the movement of people and the echoing murmurs of conversation. Time to get up.

Grumbling under her breath, Marian left the warming comfort of bed. The morning routine was quick, easy even with Svea tending to her. Whilst Marian had slept, Svea had slipped inside and silently prepared the day ahead: clothes for the day were set out on a chair and in the washroom, a hot bath had been drawn. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey, Marian retreated to the warmth of her bath, a nip or two of liquor to help her start the day. 

Hair dripping and wearing her preapproved outfit: an off-white, long-sleeved tunic that was tucked into trousers, polished boots and a burgundy surcoat; Marian and Scout made their way downstairs. Scout had her own routine, trotting off to the kitchen to seek out her morning meal. Svea was waiting for Marian, informing her that Kendry and Sile were just sitting down for breakfast. With a quick curtsey, Svea excused herself, hurrying off to complete some unknown task with an air of familiarity that didn’t suggest the elf had only been in Kirkwall for less than a day. Marian watched the elf bustle off, amused before continuing onto the dining room. 

Breakfast had already been served.

The morning meal was a decidedly Ferelden-Kirkwall affair. A platter was stocked with back-bacon, mushrooms and fried toast that were dripping in butter. Potato cakes and wheat pancakes accompanied kippers and gurty pudding. Eggs too – fried with runny yolks and seasoned heavily with salt and pepper and dried fruits with a drizzle of honey. Marian slid into the seat beside Sile before anyone could make a fuss over correct table etiquette. 

Even in the morning, Sile and Kendry were a loud, the two Ferelden nobles were engaged in a good-natured debate over the best way to prepare eggs, of all topics. Since being in Denerim, Marian had begun to eat a light breakfast; at Alistair’s insistence of course. Marian filled her plate, but toyed with the pieces of egg and bacon, listening to the conversation – a return to old habits brought upon her return to Kirkwall. The conversation was invigorating and whilst it was a friendly debate between husband and wife, Marian knew it would eventually derail into an argument. For now, Marian enjoyed the light-hearted insults with a smirk firmly in place. 

Bodahn interrupted Marian’s morning entertainment, delivering a message from the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. He needed to speak with the Viscountess _urgently_.

With a murmured apology, Marian excused herself and headed back to her quarters to don armour. Two months had passed since Marian had last walked Kirkwall, she wouldn’t put it past Carrac to concoct a conspiracy in her absence that involved multiple mercenary groups and contracted assassins. As uncomfortable as performing Viscountess duties in heavy armour was, not taking chances and losing her head wasn’t desirable. Marian knocked back another mouthful of whiskey.

After having Bodahn rearrange the day’s schedule, Marian set out from Hawke Estate, Scout by her side looking as if she was marching into battle. The armour of the Champion of Kirkwall gleamed in the morning sunlight and the sword strapped to her back was a very visual warning combined with the frown pasted on her face. It was always an effective tactic to keep people from approaching her when Marian didn’t want to be bothered. Like always, it worked. In no time, Marian was in the boat moving across to the Templar fortress which was in the middle of Kirkwall Harbour. 

Knight-Commander Cullen was waiting at the wharf for Marian’s arrival, which didn’t lend any assurances to the urgent summoning. Word of her return to Kirkwall had reached the Gallows and Cullen had sent for Marian as soon as her arrival had been made known.

There was no use in bothering with pleasantries, this wasn’t a social visit like her visits used to be. Marian saw the darkened shadows under the Knight-Commander’s eyes and his hollowed-out cheeks. If she didn’t know better, Marian would have said Cullen resembled a corpse. The months in Denerim had been kinder to Marian, but not so kind to the Knight-Commander.

“You look like shit Knight-Commander.” Marian greeted. Next to Cullen was two helmeted templars, who shifted at the blatant disrespect that the Viscountess showed to their leader. Marian watched with a raised brow as Cullen dismissed his men with a terse “ _leave us._ ” 

Marian watched the two templars perform snappy salutes before returning to their duty. No, she wasn’t here to socialise, yet she couldn’t help remark: “It’s really too bad that you can’t teach nobles to do that. Do you say ‘jump’ and they ask, ‘how high’?”

Cullen wasn’t amused.

“There’s something you need to see, Hawke.” With the slightest crook of his head, Cullen gestured towards the quarantined section of the Gallows. Marian’s good humour at Cullen’s expense soured almost immediately. _What the fuck was going on?_

Questions whirled in her head as Marian fell into step beside the Knight-Commander as they headed deeper into the Gallows. Only when the passed the first barricade leaving them quite alone, did Marian ask the question that she _really_ didn’t want to know the answer too: “How much has it spread?”

Cullen simply answered: “It can’t be cleared quickly enough to contain its spread.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

At the second barricade, Cullen waved aside the five templars standing guard. This barricade was more heavily fortified with thick coils of chain and protecting glyphs. Nothing was getting out without a fight. Marian’s unease worsened at the sight as she watched the long process to bring the protections down to allow the entry of two individuals. If Cullen had called for such a necessity than the red lyrium on the other side wasn’t encouraging at all. _Was it too late to run away?_

“I have been speaking not only with the seneschal, but also Master Tethras regarding my concerns. Master Tethras has kindly shared what little information he has…found on red lyrium, in an attempt to combat it’s spread.” Marian was taken aback by Cullen’s admission.

There weren’t many things that Varric and Marian kept from one another, but the presence of red lyrium had been one of them. She’d made that hard decision of keeping Varric in the dark because she had been the one to leave that fateful piece of red lyrium that survived Bartrand in Varric’s hands. Varric hadn’t wanted to destroy it, despite Marian’s objections. The unknown mineral had moved Varric’s brother to insanity and nearly caused Varric to lose his own sanity in the process. No only that, it was that fragment which had allowed demons to overrun the Tethras family home in Hightown. After the soul-crushing ordeal of the Deep Roads and the violent, family drama sequel, Marian had thought that Varric would have disposed of the fragment, permanently silencing the compelling songs that it sang in one’s mind. 

_Ignorance was fucking bliss_. 

Marian should have entertained the idea that Varric would have spent coin to understand the nuance of red lyrium. But she had never asked, happier to think that such a devastating footnote in Varric’s story had concluded with Bartrand’s life.

How wrong she was. 

Finally released of its protective bonds, the gate clattered upwards. Cullen cleared his throat and stepped over the threshold. Marian followed, dread settling thickly around her. Instinct told her to run far away from the Gallows. Instinct told her to build a pyre and raze the cursed fortress to the ground once and for all and find another place for the mages to live out their lives in well-deserved peace.

There was a harsh intake of breath and then the song began anew.

Marian had heard the red lyrium’s song before. It was compelling sotto voce utterances that remained fixed in one’s mind and made the palms itch urgently with the need for sudden bloodshed.

Marian had heard the song before, compelling sotto voce utterances that stuck in one’s mind and made the palms with the urge for sudden bloodshed. Last time Marian had heard this song, the persuasive and aberrant whispers were raised voices in her mind. She came to a sudden stop when she saw the red lyrium that crystallised through the room.

The song wasn’t compelling, but loud and confronting shouts to act. With the red-lyrium around her, it whispered sly words or mocked her in deafening shouts. Marian knew that it was the unnatural glowing red mineral that spread from the ground that spoke to her and tried to unnaturally lengthen the shadows that persistently followed her. It whispered damning thoughts into Marian’s mind, causing her to clench her teeth so that she wouldn’t shout out in damning desperation in order to silence them. 

“You hear them too, don’t you?” Cullen’s voice seemed to cut through the mounting cacophony. The familiar burning pain that accompanied the scrape of steel on flesh centred her. Looking down, Marian saw the fabric of her gambeson had been ripped and dots of blood stained the fabric. She needed to leave this damned place, before the song possessed her completely. 

“It doesn’t matter what I hear.” Marian answered brusquely. Cullen nodded stiffly and gestured to a walkway to the left of the courtyard. “This way.” 

The last time Marian had been in this part of the Gallows, Marian had been running through with Varric and Fenris, trying to find any surviving mages and desperately ignoring the destruction of the Circle at the hands of crazed heretics. Very real and vivid memories didn’t help the song of red-lyrium, which had peaked to a crescendo in her head. It tried to compel her with deafening shouts that were too difficult to ignore. 

_It would be so easy_ , the voices whispered around her. _So easy to kill the Knight-Commander and erase the threat before he can truly become one._

They continued chattering in her head and all Marian could do was ignore them whilst her palm itched to take her knife and end Cullen’s misery.

She didn’t do it.

Belatedly, Marian realized that Cullen had led her into a closed off section of the Circle. The thrum of magic surrounded her, the mere presence of it enough to distract her from the onslaught of voices. But also, passing through an erected barrier, the enthralling song seemed to abate.

“There are some templars who show the same madness that Meredith did. Combined with Master Tethras’ in depth examinations, we have been able to pick up the corruption sooner and interfere before it has taken root.” Cullen told Marian; voice strained with unspoken exertion. Marian was certain that Cullen was fighting his own voices and unlike Marian, succeeding. 

The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall pushed open an iron-barred door that grated on its hinges. The spacious room had been a training room of sorts, but now it had been divided with the unnatural light of what Marian vaguely recognised as arcane magic. She had seen this before, magic that held a person in stasis, fully aware but unable to move.

The same magic that had kept her mother suspended before she had been brutally murdered.

 _Cullen wouldn’t have ordered such containment measures unless it was necessary_. Marian repeated that thought to herself ad nauseum as she turned her back on the handful of templar restrained by such magic.

 _Cullen ordered this so you cannot forget_. A voice sneered in the back of her mind.

“They cannot stay here.” Marian commented harshly.

Cullen nodded in agreement. “They are incapable of performing their duty to the Maker. Dangerous. Yet I would not discharge them because of their reaction.”

Marian swallowed, understanding and hating Cullen’s predicament. She knew that once removed from the presence of red-lyrium that the primeval compulsion would eventually abate. But the question was _where_. The further away the better, yet this wasn’t something that Marian nor Cullen could entrust to anyone. It would only make mage-templar relations worse.

“Take them away from the red-lyrium and they will recover.” Marian said grimly. Cullen nodded in agreement.

“There is nowhere I would entrust to keep them safe whilst they-” Cullen finished his thought rather abruptly, but Marian didn’t need to clarify where he was going with that thought. Already, she was brainstorming where in Kirkwall they would be able to conduct such a venture, keeping the templars under the thrall of red-lyrium safe from the greater population.

Unfortunately, there was only one place that Marian considered capable of handling such a task: “The dungeons in the Keep are being used for little more than storage.” Housing the templars there would add to the strain that the City-Guard already faced. Marian reasoned that with the Kirkwall militia, the added tasks would be manageable…if barely.

“The First-Enchanter has been renewing the enchantments daily. This was a last resort measure, the confinement…exacerbates their symptoms.” Cullen pointed over Marian’s shoulder and she turned, noticing fresh bandages wrapped up the templars arms.

“Preparations to house the templars at the Keep will have to be made before they can be moved. We’ll have to adjust the guard roster to keep people away from the dungeons.” A terse nod of agreement form Cullen. “What measures are in place to limit exposure?” Marian also asked.

Cullen raked a tired hand through unkempt hair. “The red-lyrium is spreading, but what we are doing is slowing the spread. Two-hour cycles with checks made by Knight-Captains every fifteen minutes. The stratagem is working, for now at least.” Cullen didn’t sound overly confident that this would continue to be effective. Marian shared the Knight-Commander’s bleak outlook on the situation. 

“And the Order?” Marian inquired. Cullen shook his head. “I have appealed to the Seekers of Truth and other Knight-Commanders who I trust to handle this discreetly. None have replied.”

There was a sinking feeling in Marian’s gut, the damning realization that Marian had fought for over a year now. “We are on our own.”

“For now, at least.”

Marian couldn’t escape the Gallows fast enough.

The voices whirled inside her head. They flattered her, insulted her, at once stoked and soothed her inner most doubts and fears. The voices told her that it was _her fault_. Marian couldn’t think clearly, everything was surrounded by a haze of corruption and the shadows were licked at her boots. With little mind to the fact she wore full plate armour, Marian made for Lowtown and banged tirelessly on a door that had been boarded back together more times than Marian could count on both hands. 

Finally, the door wrenched open. Blood shot, red-rimmed eyes, week old stubble and stinking hair greeted her.

“Ah, _Viscountess_.” Raleigh Samson sneered her title, revealing yellowed teeth. Marian raised a brow at the ex-Templar.

“Are you going to let me in?” Samson looked at Marian like she had grown another head. “I didn’t think the _Viscountess_ associated herself with Lowtown ilk.” Marian rolled her eyes and shouldered her way past Samson inside his home that could only be described as a hovel.

Traipsing into the small living area, if you could call it that. Marian began pulled off armour pieces. “I need product. You need coin.” Marian always got straight to the point where Samson was concerned. There had always been something that made Marian’s skin crawl where the former Templar was concerned. That same instinct that had her wanting to flee into the mountains in the Gallows had returned. Inside her head, the voices that lived there plagued her with indecision.  
  
Samson scoffed. “Funny, how the _Viscountess_ remembers the little people when it suits her.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You said that you were happy to supply me and ignore the fact that I run the city.” Samson and Marian weren’t friends. Sure, the former Templar had offered Marian advice on how to deal with the clusterfuck that was Orsino and Meredith. But the advice was also offered as Samson had made precise, thin lines of lyrium dust and watched her inhale the dust until her body was numb and she didn’t have to _think._

Samson dropped into his seat, an old, worn and stinking Orlesian lounge that Samson had likely pilfered from somewhere. Free of her armour, Marian seated herself on the moth-eaten chaise and pulled out the pouch of coin from beneath her sweat soaked shirt and dropped it on the table. There was no need to exchange further pleasantries.

“I need enough dust to last me half a year. At least.” Samson blinked at the heavy coin pouch that rested on the rickety table, stained with Maker knew what. Samson glanced at the pouch and then back at Marian, a nasty smirk on his face.

“Are you going somewhere, _Viscountess_?” Samson sneered and Marian gestured at the table-top in front of her. Samson was as templar as they came: he got off on controlling Marian’s high. He would give her what she paid for and then some, but for that little some, Samson would prod and poke until Marian was begging for it.

Her patience was worn thin, the voices made her head pound. Before she could stop herself, Marian pulled out a knife, slamming it into the rotting wooden table. Samson’s nasty smirk widened, and he pushed a small tray with lyrium dust across the table towards Marian. 

“I do miss our conversations, _Viscountess._ ”

Marian ignored him, bending over the tray and desperately inhaling first one line and then another. When she looked up, Samson was still watching her, like he always did.

“Does the King of Ferelden know about our fun activities together?” Samson asked. 

“Just fill the fucking order, Samson.” Marian snapped at him.

Still smirking, Samson began counting coin. They weren’t friends, after all. 

*** * * * * * * * * ***

In the office of the Viscount’s Keep, Marian leaned back in her chair, considering the decree that she had just signed. The process to finalise appointments to the legislative was a simple one. First, the decree was passed to the seneschal who then announced the Viscountess’s appointment to the legislative council. A more dramatic process involved an announcement, which in case of this particular decree would be made at the feast thanking the Ferelden diplomats for their visit…and their business. The evening was more for Carrac’s pride than anything else; the man had successfully manoeuvred the Viscountess out of Kirkwall after all and in the process had secured a lucrative trade agreement with a powerful neighbour.

Now it was Marian’s turn to tip Carrac’s precarious balance of power back into her favour. 

She’d kept her thoughts to herself this time and had told no one of what she had put into motion, _especially Varric_. 

Bran knocked on the open door carefully before entering the office. Marian had made a point in only speaking with the traitorous seneschal only when necessary. Since returning to Kirkwall, Marian had managed to brush off the seneschal several times. Bran had been treading carefully where the Viscountess was concerned, murmuring a polite greeting but refusing to meet Marian’s eyes.

 _Pathetic coward_ , Marian thought viciously.

Marian waited until Bran had nearly successfully retreated after dropping off the daily reports before speaking off. “Seneschal, I have a decree that will be announced tonight.”

Bran tentatively re-entered the room and approached her desk. Marian watched, heart beating with anticipation as Bran picked up the decree, which was signed dated and witnessed by Marlein Selbrech. Marian watched as Bran skimmed the decree, barely concealed tolerance morphing into abject disbelief. 

“But Viscountess–” Marian held up a hand and Bran’s objection stuttered off.

“I will be spending an indefinable length of time in Ferelden. Life goes on in Kirkwall and this is the best way to ensure that my visions are realized and that I continue to have the final say in matters regarding Kirkwall’s future.” Bran took in Marian’s words, gulping like a fish out of water as he tried to take in Marian’s act and decision.

The decree stated that Marian Hawke, Viscountess of Kirkwall had reinstated the position of _Vogt_ , who acted as an overlord to the nobility. The seat was a remainder of Kirkwall’s governance once being seated firmly within the hands of the Tevinter Imperium, where such positions were necessary to control the magocracy. The seat was similar enough to the role of a seneschal that when Kirkwall had settled into it’s newfound self-determination after gaining independence from Tevinter, the position had fallen out of use. The guardianship that the _vogts_ of old gave was exactly what Marian needed whilst she was away from Kirkwall.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall needed someone who would speak and act with her thoughts in mind. The Viscountess of Kirkwall needed a person who possessed their own reputation that would make others listen to their direction. Marian needed someone she trusted and that was Varric Tethras. 

Varric would hate this appointment, that much Marian knew, but it was a necessary one. When Marian returned to Kirkwall, the position became administerial – if Marian knew how long she would have to spend in Ferelden before being able to return to Kirkwall on a semi-permanent basis.

“The purpose of a seneschal is to act as Kirkwall’s temporary leader and–” Bran had finally found his voice and Marian promptly cut him off by standing and leaning over her desk.

“–Actually _seneschal_ , I have never named a steward for Kirkwall. Nor have I acknowledged the current seneschal of Kirkwall to act as steward in my absence. This is concerning, considering I am due to leave Kirkwall.” Brow raised; Marian waited for an answer. She shouldn’t have found it comical that Bran was clearly afraid of her, but there they were. 

When Marian didn’t receive an immediate answer, she kept going. “Instead of doing either of those things, I am reinstating the position of Vogt and giving full stewardship powers to that position.” Marian stood upright, arms crossed and drove her point home. “Wouldn’t it be terrible if something were to happen to me, seneschal, and there were no measures put in place to ensure Kirkwall’s continued governance?” 

Bran still hadn’t looked up at Marian, his eyes were glued on the decree that he still held in his hand.

“No, Viscountess you’re right. That is a potentially disastrous oversight.”

“And what action would you recommend? For the person that failed to advise me of such importance?” Bran’s mouth was twisted in a grimace. Marian raised her brows, this time expecting an answer. 

“Dismissal from the position.” Bran’s said, cowed by his own admission. Marian picked up the letter that she had written to Varric – the official notice of his elevation. She would speak with her friend directly, but written correspondence ruled the order of the day. Marian held the letter out to Bran until he accepted it from her, an ugly expression had replaced the cowed one. Likely Bran was already thinking quickly, trying to find a way around Marian’s decree. It was unlikely they’d find a way so quickly – Marian hadn’t been able to stop her pending marriage, but she could place a hard line in the sand that would make it difficult for Carrac to roll over and continue undermining her.

“You will announce Varric Tethras’ appointment as vogt to Kirkwall. This announcement will coincide with the feast this evening.” Marian sat back down and pulled the stack of reports towards her.

With Varric’s appointment as vogt, Marian had taken care of Kirkwall for a time at least. Bodahn and his adopted-son Sandal were leaving Kirkwall for Orlais. Marian didn’t like the idea of Hawke estate uninhabited, as much as she loathed the estate itself. She had offered it to Aveline and Donnic, who had modest accommodations in Lowtown. The heated debate at the dinner table had been an amusing sight for Marian’s Ferelden guests. Donnic had been the one who had accepted the offer in the end. The next day Marian had transferred the estate into Aveline’s name. The estate hadn’t been Marian’s home for a long time, though she knew that Aveline and Donnic would always welcome her there. Likewise, Varric had found genuine investors in the Bone Pit – the city of Kirkwall wouldn’t be able to touch the mine now.

It was really too bad that Marian hadn’t been able to find a way out of this engagement. Then she would be able to just up and leave. Kirkwall was an albatross hanging around her neck and it was stinking and rotten. Ferelden was the closest Marian could ever get to escaping the albatross that was Kirkwall. Marian was exhausted, the sooner she left the better off it would be for everyone.

Bran had retreated with a stiff bow and was obviously waiting to be dismissed. Marian tiredly waved him away. Once more the seneschal was at the door when another thought occurred to Marian: "When I return to Ferelden, I will become Ferelden’s Queen. Do what you will when I am Kirkwall’s Viscountess, but the Queen of Ferelden is more dangerous than packing me off to the Templars. Don’t fuck me over and I won’t fuck _you_ over.” The stiffness in Bran’s shoulders was the only indication that he had heard.

The door snapped closed behind Bran and Marian let out a rush of breath that she didn’t know she’d been holding. Marian didn’t know how she was going to get through the feast that evening. Mechanically, she pulled out the pouch of lyrium that Samson had given her moving the motions of carding precious lyrium into paper thin lines.

A shot of whiskey and a snort of lyrium.

Marian Hawke was almost free of Kirkwall; she could almost taste it. All Marian had to do was persevere.


	13. Part II: Chapter Twelve: The King and His Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Finally._
> 
> Shout out to the ever lovely [endtable_fororphans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/endtable_fororphans/pseuds/endtable_fororphans) who gave invaluable advice into writing this chapter. It wouldn't be what it is without it!
> 
> Also note, adult themes are in this chapter, but please consider other story warnings.

Who knows me as You do?  
You have been there since before my first breath.  
You have seen me when no other would recognize my face.  
You composed the cadence of my heart.

\- The Chant of Light: Trials 1:11 

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_   
  


The royal carriage slowly moved through Denerim. People crowded the streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of their King as he passed along, waving to the excited crowd as the carriage followed its route to the Denerim Chantry. 

Alistair couldn’t help the awed smile as he waved at the people of Ferelden. The carriage was open, and the crowded streets seemed endless. Eamon was with him, the Regent of Ferelden in all his finery, escorting Alistair to the ceremony. The day was overcast but the sun’s rays still managed to shine through the clouds. A light breeze blew in from the Waking Sea. _It could have been worse,_ Alistair supposed _, it could have been raining._

The day was shaping to be a fine one, as far as spring days in Ferelden went. Fitting really, since the King of Ferelden was marrying the Viscountess of Kirkwall. 

Their procession clattered through the marketplace, the swell of spectators was thicker and thicker as the carriage approached the Chantry. As the carriage approached the Chantry, it occurred to Alistair that Hawke wouldn’t be that far behind in a carriage of her own. He turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of his bride-to-be in question, but wasn’t so lucky. For his effort, the crowd roared in response, likely thinking that he had turned back for them. Sheepishly, Alistair waved back. 

Completing the marketplace loop, the carriage began its final trek to the Denerim Chantry.

Ferelden soldiers stood at attention where the crowd was thickest. The archway that allowed entry onto Chantry ground had been decorated with greenery, the creamy-white-red petals of Andraste’s Grace stood out, framing the way to the double doors of the Chantry. A Sister waited in front of the open doors to bless those who were attending the ceremony. 

A waiting footman received the carriage, opening the door for King and Regent. Eamon gave Alistair a confident nod before stepping out of the carriage first. Watching Eamon step down, the reality of what Alistair was about to do fully hit him. 

Alistair Therin was going to marry Marian Hawke. 

“Your majesty?” Eamon was still standing beside the carriage, waiting for Alistair to step down beside him. 

Alistair shook his head and hurried out of the carriage, stopping beside Eamon so he could run nervous hands through tidied hair. He’d let it grow to the point where he’d had to constantly sweep the longer strands out of his face. Eamon had insisted that his hair be tidied, so Alistair had relented and allowed the longer tresses to be cut back in a style reminiscent of his templar days. 

Eamon gestured towards the Chantry steps. “This way, your majesty.” Alistair strode on ahead, mustering a false sense of courage that he didn’t possess. 

_Eamon knows these types of nerves_ , Alistair reminded himself. But the thought wasn’t as comforting as it should have been. King and Regent followed the carpeted pathway that had been rolled out over cobbled stone. Walking inside, Alistair stopped in the atrium. It was quieter here, a temporary peace in the chaos of the day, even though the echo of the crowd could still be heard. The gentle murmur of the seated guests was oddly soothing. 

Revered Mother Clare was waiting patiently for Alistair. The King of Ferelden bowed, another ingrained motion, though Alistair would never grow accustomed to the returned bow that was an acknowledgement of their stations. 

A herald announced first Eamon and then Alistair. Another kingly ritual that was comfortingly familiar. The gentle murmurs died away as the sounds of movement filtered into the atrium - people standing. 

Alistair swallowed his nerves and with a reassuring smile, Revered Mother Clare led Alistair to the altar. 

This Chantry was the one that Alistair remembered from his childhood. The same perfumed incense was heavy in the air, but it didn’t make his nose itch. The incense was lighter - earthier even and much more pleasant compared to the incense that was burnt for his coronation. More candles had been lit for the occasion inside the sacred building, another welcome change. The additional candles lightened the holy space and seeing the gathered people only heightened Alistair’s nerves. 

At the altar, Eamon patted Alistair on the shoulder, murmuring words of luck that Alistair didn’t heed, distracted as he was. Alistair turned to Mother Clare unsure when Eamon moved to stand on Alistair’s left. There were no answers there, the Revered Mother had her gaze firmly fixed on the doors, waiting for Hawke. 

Alistair struggled not to fidget, or to say something that he’d regret later. Thankfully, this trial of patience didn’t last for long. 

The arrival of the bridal party began with a sunny Dalish elf leading the procession. She wore wildflowers in her hair and her swaying walk made the skirts of her dress swish around her. Reaching Alistair, the elf dropped into a smooth bow and murmured solemn words in her mother tongue. The brilliant smile when she had finished speaking indicated it was a blessing of sorts, rather than a curse. It would have been concerning if it wasn’t apparent that the elf was a close friend of Hawke’s. 

Seconds passed like hours and finally - _finally_ \- trumpets announced Hawke’s arrival. Alistair turned fully to face the entryway, ready to shoot a look of sheer desperation so that she could help him expedite the ceremony and they could escape all the unnecessary ceremony. Alistair hedged that Hawke would be as desperate for a whiskey or ten as he currently was. 

Alistair had imagined a Hawke donned in gleaming armour with a great sword strapped to her back. A Viscountess who was first and foremost a warrior, fierce and dangerous. The choice for a King who had stood up in the face of darkness and aided in defeating the Arch-Demon of the Fifth Blight. Instead, the Viscountess of Kirkwall was swathed in burgundy satin and velvet with trailing skirts that tapered at her waist. Hawke’s unruly hair was twisted out of her face and she held a bouquet of Andraste’s Grace that cascaded down her front. Andrastinian traditions didn’t fit with the sharpness of Marian Hawke at all.

 _She looks terrible._ Alistair had to bite the inside of his bottom lip to contain his amusement. 

Hawke was a vision, the illusion of what a Viscountess and future Queen _should_ look like. The flash of dislike in Hawke’s gaze confirmed Alistair’s assumption that she hated the attention and the confines of the dress that she wore. 

Escorting Hawke was the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall, who Alistair remembered from their brief meeting all those years ago. Hawke had mentioned her infrequently and Alistair had read between the lines to interpret that Viscountess and Guard-Captain were close friends. The Guard-Captain wore official armour of Kirkwall that had been polished to a brilliant shine and her red hair seemed to burn in the candlelight. A Chantry Mother followed the procession, swinging more of the earthy incense about, another purification ritual. 

To Alistair’s surprise and dismay, it was the Guard-Captain that performed the duty of a father handing his daughter into the hands of the Maker and Andraste. 

Alistair’s family was the one that he had built around him and he hadn’t thought to ask if Hawke’s family would be attending, indeed, if any of her family had survived the trip to Kirkwall. Hawke was close-lipped about almost all of her personal life, what she divulged was on her terms and no one else’s. Alistair didn’t think he would willingly get an answer unless she wanted to share that with him. But it was still a conversation that needed to be had in the near future. For the moment at least, Alistair temporarily forgot his nerves as he debated the best way to approach such a conversation. 

Lost in his thoughts, Alistair startled when Hawke was standing before him. The Guard-Captain handed Hawke to the Revered Mother with a clearly answered affirmation. Before she retreated, the Guard-Captain fixed Alistair with a stern glare, making Alistair wondered if the two friends were related after all. 

With Mother Clare watching, Hawke stepped forward and knelt before the statue of Andraste and placed the bouquet of flowers at its base. Hawke had to push her voluminous skirts behind her to stand and Alistair bit his lip again. _This is ridiculous_ , Alistair was uncomfortable despite his amusement. 

Hawke smirked at him, as if she’d read his thoughts. 

Then the ceremony began, the Revered Mother opening with a prayer to the Maker and to Andraste. Alistair had thought that he had heard all of the prayers to Andraste as a recruit, but he was wrong. There was a certain lyrical beauty to the Chant of Light, one that Alistair held more appreciation for now that the words weren’t constantly shoved down his throat. It had been years since he had recited the Chant, but as Clare moved into passages from the Canticle of Andraste, Alistair found himself humming along out of remembered habit. 

As the choir concluded the refrain, Hawke’s smirk morphed into a strained expression as their hands were joined together. Cold and clammy hands met nervous, hot and sticky ones. This time it was Alistair’s turn to smirk at Hawke, who then scowled. They both knew what was coming: readings to the Maker to proceed their marriage. 

The Revered Mother began placing a cord that was threaded with gold and silver over their hands as Hawke began to recite from the Chant of Light. The words spilled from her lips, awkward and uncomfortable, rushing through her chosen verse from in one long breath. The verse, from the first Canticle of Trials, was oddly romantic when recited here and Alistair raised a questioning brow that Marian Hawke, of all people, was strangely intimate with the Chant of Light. 

_Well, that was unexpected._ Hawke would never cease to surprise him.

Alistair had chosen the twelfth Transfigurations. His voice carried through the sacred space of the Chantry, enunciating with lilting practice. It had always been his favourite Canticle after all. 

The Revered Mother cupped their conjoined hands before tying the first knot. Each placement of the cord that wrapped about their hands followed the melody that Alistair set; the final knot pulled firm as Alistair finished his reading and was confronted with the sight of their hands joined under the eyes of the Maker. 

Perhaps it was the incense or it was the Canticles that they had recited to one another, but there was an echo of a promise in the readings they had chosen for one another; a formal declaration of the friendship that Alistair had built with Hawke over the short period of knowing one another. It was a profound moment for Alistair, further heightened by how warm Hawke’s hand was in his. Alistair could feel Hawke’s galloping pulse, just like he was certain that Hawke could feel his own which raced just as fast. 

“Have you come here of your own free will?” Clare prompted. Hawke’s eyes bored into his. 

_Yes - but no_. 

“Yes.” Alistair answered. A muttered affirmative came from Hawke. Alistair squeezed the hand that was in his. 

“Will you honour one another as man and wife in the eyes of the Maker?” 

_We don’t have much choice_. 

A strained ‘yes’. This time it was Hawke who offered reassurance. 

“Will you accept children born of this union as gifts from the Maker and raise them to honour Andraste’s teachings?” 

_Can I even have children?_ Alistair found himself thinking almost desperately. Hawke seemed as panicked as Alistair felt. He knew this was an expectation, but to hear it spoken in such terms by the Revered Mother was something else entirely. 

Hawke shifted her weight from one foot to another, her fingers twitched with sudden movements in Alistair’s hands. The panic that Alistair felt was reflected in Hawke’s eyes now, but it was she who answered with a whispered yes. Alistair followed, his answer setting them firmly on a path that would forever project them forwards together. Hawke and Alistair knelt together at Clare’s instruction followed by a prayer for the newlywed couple. 

Mother Clare unwrapped the cord that joined Hawke to Alistair as she recited the final blessing under Andraste’s careful gaze. Eamon stepped forward, presenting a silver wedding band that Alistair had engraved with simple decorations. As Alistair slid the ring easily onto Hawke’s left ring-finger, he noticed that her nails were bitten down to the quick. Finished, Alistair dropped his hands to his side, awkward now and uneasy, waiting for some potential embarrassment when the gesture wasn’t returned in kind.

Yet Hawke surprised him again. She turned to her elven friend who presented her with an equally simple wedding band which Hawke slid onto Alistair’s finger as if it burned her to touch the silver metal. 

Alistair couldn’t blame her at all. 

His knees beginning to ache, Alistair stood and offered a hand to Hawke, which she ignored despite the yards of material that hindered her success. Man and wife turned to Mother Clare waiting for the condemning words that accompanied most weddings: the decree to kiss as the final confirmation of their union. Clare was kind enough to confirm the dreadful moment with the slightest of nods before announcing the final instruction. 

Hawke stepped forward. “I reckon we could start a war if we used enough tongue.” She muttered under her breath so only Alistair could hear her. The humour lightened their situation, enough that Alistair was emboldened enough to angle her chin that little bit with the tip of his pointer finger.

“The sooner we do this, the sooner we can drink.” He whispered back. Hawke rolled her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Shut up and kiss me, King.” Alistair didn’t have to be prodded further. The Chantry was suffocating, the perfume that was heavy in the air had become nauseating. 

Chapped lips met in a questioningly quick kiss, sustained long enough for the final cementation of their nuptials.

_Go now and let the Maker shine His light on you. What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

Alistair and Hawke couldn’t leave the Chantry fast enough.

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

The carriage carrying the King and his bride on the return procession to the palace was much livelier than the somewhat solemn one to the Chantry. The crowd’s excitement seeing King and Viscountess seated next to one another was infectious and renewed the Ferelden people’s vigour, making their cries louder than ever before. With so many eyes on them, it had been hard to have a proper conversation. Alistair had leaned forward to talk into Hawke’s ear and had been rewarded with raucous cheering at the presumed public display of affection.

Of course, Hawke had turned it into a game.

Handwaving was one thing, but the first time Hawke had leaned in and her lips brushed Alistair’s ear lobe as she uttered nonsense words into his ear, the crowd had swelled with appreciation. She’d leaned back and turned to wave with a challenging gleam to her eye. It had gone on like this, back and forth until the carriage had come to a stop in front of the doors to the palace.

Before Alistair could doubt himself more than he already had for one day, he touched his new wife’s elbow before exiting the carriage. Alistair waited by the steps, a hand extended in preparation for Hawke’s descent, which would be hindered by the constrains of her dress. 

Hawke still hadn’t moved. “Shall we get this over and done with?” Alistair asked with a pointed glance at the train that was bunched at Hawke’s feet.

“I swear I’m going to rip this thing into two before this night is done.” Hawke complained as she stood, kicking her skirts out of the way. Accepting Alistair’s hand, Marian clumsily exited the carriage. When she was on solid ground, Marian pulled Alistair towards her, that same challenging smirk growing as she pressed their lips together. 

The Ferelden people’s screams were deafening. Hawke was laughing against Alistair’s lips and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. Alistair wondered if Marian had managed to slip a drink into the folds of her dress. Hawke had found some renewed energy, whereas Alistair felt like he’d just sprinted a couple of hundred yards in heavy armour. Amazing, what leaving the Chantry would do.

Hawke held out her arm to Alistair and they linked arms. “Come on husband, we both need a drink.” Alistair allowed Hawke to lead him inside, baffled by Hawke’s sudden burst in energy and her crowd-riling antics.

By some sheer luck, the walk to the ballroom afforded the newlywed couple a needed moment to themselves. Out of sight of the public eye, they dropped their linked arms. Hawke adjusted the neck of her dress, clearly still uncomfortable in her gown. Alistair sat on the stone beach, leaning against the cold stone. He cleared his throat and Hawke looked up from making her improvised adjustments.

“Was all that really necessary?” Alistair asked. Hawke shrugged, distracted as she reached down and underneath her dress. There was a faint ripping sound and Alistair raised his brows questioningly. Hawke shrugged again.

“You would disappoint the people of Ferelden? You are a mean King.” Hawke told him before stepping more easily towards where Alistair was seated. To Alistair’s surprise, Hawke bent down to straighten the collar of his jacket before sitting down next to him with a relieved sigh. 

“Are you feeling ill? Domesticity doesn’t suit you Hawke.” Alistair joked and was rewarded with a not-to-gentle punch to the shoulder. “You still owe me a drink.” Hawke retorted. An easy silence fell between the two of them, Alistair fiddling with the ring that was on his finger. Reluctantly, Alistair clapped a hand on Hawke’s knee and stood. “Time to face the music.”

“Don’t forget that drink.” Marian reminded Alistair again before they linked arms and stepped through into the ballroom, together. 

As King of Ferelden, Alistair had been to his fair share of parties and feasts. True, the Orlesians had perfected the art of extravagant parties: from the location through to the food presented. Ferelden parties, however, were another standard entirely. Somehow, Ferelden’s – in Alistair’s opinion – knew how a party _should_ be thrown. But of all occasions that Alistair would experience it, he didn’t think it would be at the feast celebrating his marriage. It certainly put a dampener on the festivities.

The shutters had been opened, letting the sun in through expansive windows. Long runners in red, white and gold; a marriage between Kirkwall and Ferelden heraldry had been hung on the roof and the table decorations reflected this scheme. The doors to the courtyard were open, dozens upon dozens of lanterns were set there, waiting to be lit at sunset.

Ferelden’s honoured guests were already seated at the long tables, greeting the King and his new wife with tumultuous applause. The feast began when Hawke and Alistair took their places at the centre of the head table. Hawke’s first call was for wine, _strong_ wine. 

Alistair was happy to pick at the bowl of smoked almonds as Hawke filled their cups to the brim and took a long draught. On Hawke’s side, sat the Guard-Captain – _call her Aveline_ , Hawke said – and her elven friend, who Hawke introduced as Merrill. The elf was as pleasant as her demeanour, with keen intellect and Alistair found himself in a deep discussion about the Dalish land acquisitions in Ferelden, and what went wrong. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant conversation, yet Merrill spoke with a confidence that reflected her unofficial position as a leader of elves.

Alistair was grateful for Merrill’s input. Hawke mouthed ‘you’re welcome.’

When the break in courses came, the opportunity to dance always presented itself. Hawke wasn’t a dancer, much to Alistair’s relief, but it did mean that social obligations were at the forefront of their agenda. Alistair was very much used to fulfilling such things, Hawke – not so much.

Watching Merrill flit to the music was a treat in itself, until Alistair was distracted by Guard-Captain Aveline informing Hawke that Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven was attending their wedding. It came across more as a warning which was confusing considering that Kirkwall and Starkhaven were had established a firm alliance that had the other Free Marches cities scrambling to establish peaceful relations with both cities. It was a formidable alliance and Teagan would have sent the invitation to Starkhaven to continue the friendship with the inclusion of Ferelden. 

Judging from the frown on Hawke’s face, the relationship between her and the Vael heir was much more than a diplomatic one. The Guard-Captain excused herself, pulled into conversation by Tegan, giving Alistair the opportunity to dig for answers. 

Casually, Alistair sipped his wine before asking: “Is there a reason why we’re being wary of Starkhaven?”

Hawke shook her head and shifted in her seat so she was closer to Alistair, allowing limited privacy. “Sebastian was a brother of the Kirkwall Chantry before returning to Starkhaven.” She explained.

 _A much more intimate friendship then_ , Alistair surmised. It explained how Hawke was so familiar with verses from the Chant of Light. He waited for Hawke to continue expectantly. 

“Sebastian recited the Trials to me once in Kirkwall, I liked it.” Marian elaborated with a shrug that was too casual to be authentic. _Definitely more than friends,_ Alistair confirmed to himself.

“I can make myself scarce if that’s what you want?” Alistair offered daringly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, let’s get this over with.” Hawke snapped back and Alistair held his hands up in mock surrender. Even so, Hawke still made a point to take hold of Alistair’s hand before leading him over to where the Prince of Starkhaven was seated along with their Nevarran and Antivan guests.

Hawke and Sebastian exchanged warm greetings, but there was something forced to the interaction. With what little Alistair had been able to glean from Hawke he commented – shared experiences within the Chantry was always a guaranteed conversation starter after all. The Prince of Starkhaven was concise with his conversation and politely firm with his views, the glaring opposite to Hawke. They were different enough that Alistair could almost see how a friendship had formed, until Sebastian wryly added that Hawke had helped him only out of curiosity. _Chantry brothers and bloodshed are like oil and water, wouldn’t you agree?_ Prince Vael had said. Hawke would never admit it, but she had watched the entire conversation fold out between the two men and Alistair wasn’t sure if she was relieved or unhappy that the King of Ferelden and Prince of Starkhaven had meshed together as well as they did.

Alistair was the one who excused Hawke from the uncomfortable situation to move on and greet their other visiting guests.

Orzammar and Orlais had been seated together – an interesting move that Teagan had likely approved. Duke Cyril de Montfort was quick to monopolise the King and Viscountess’s attention and Alistair really shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the Duke and Hawke were old acquaintances. Along with this revelation that de Montfort’s mother Amelie was once friends with Hawke’s mother, was the personally delivered letter from Empress Celene, congratulating Alistair on his marriage and expressing her regret that she had been unable to attend.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that Duke de Montfort was accompanied by his daughter, Chrestienne. _Bloody Orlesians_.

It was Alistair’s turn to be uncomfortable, desperately ignoring Hawke’s subtle jabs when the Duke explained to Hawke that his daughter had been contended as a potential bride.

Chrestienne looked much younger than what her portrait had suggested. Not only that, she seemed terribly fragile, as if one ill-tempered word would break the lady. Chrestienne was quiet, listening to the conversation with a polite smile, speaking once only to thank Alistair in a reedy, high-pitched voice. Unsure of what service Alistair had been to the Orlesian lady, he had bowed to her echoing his sentiments that he was glad to be of service.

It only occurred to Alistair after Chrestienne had excused herself to join a dance that she too hadn’t wanted to marry either. 

Greeting Bhelen was the stark opposite to the de Montfort’s, for both Alistair and Hawke. Fond and firm handshakes between kings were exchanged and Hawke was introduced to Bhelan’s wife Rica. Rica was also the opposite to Chrestienne, the sturdy and talkative Queen of Orzammar who disarmed Hawke’s haughtiness with inappropriate jokes and anecdotes of her courtship with Bhelen that made Hawke guffaw with laughter. Much to Hawke’s chagrin, Alistair shared his first meeting with Hawke in the Hanged Man, which had Bhelen clapping Hawke on the shoulder.

One could say what they did about Bhelen’s choices as King, but he was a decent man and so was his wife. 

Conversation had turned to more serious matters when Hawke touched Alistair’s arm, excusing herself with a forced smile. With polite bows, Alistair and the Orzammar royals watched Hawke weave through the people, often being stopped with offers of congratulations or other brief conversation before disappearing out into the courtyard.

“She will make a strong queen, your majesty.” Rica commented kindly, likely very much aware that the marriage they all celebrated was one of political convenience and not one of love. Alistair bowed to the Queen of Orzammar.

“Come, I believe there are some acquaintances of mine that you will want to meet.” Alistair said, unconvincingly trying to change the subject. Weddings weren’t just for celebration, but an opportunity to conduct business; business that Orzammar sorely needed. Rica let the topic drop but gave Alistair a brief pat on his lower arm as they moved on join in other conversations and to importantly, network. Introductions between Orzammar and the Free Marches went well, though where the Prince of Starkhaven had gotten too was anyone’s guess.

It really only confirmed Alistair’s initial suspicions. He had no issue with the Prince of Starkhaven’s sudden inclusion in his and Hawke’s new, shared life. Alistair only hoped that Hawke used her brain and was discrete about it. Nevertheless, when Alistair excused himself, already talks of Orzammar extending their reach into the Free Marches was on the table.

Bhelen always worked quickly, with Rica helping matters along as always; they were a strong team working together. One that Alistair hoped he and Hawke could form.

Returning to the head table, Alistair refilled his glass of wine and helped himself to the fruits and cheeses that were on offer. Hawke had been absent long enough now that people were undoubtedly noticing that the bride was missing. Aveline had joined him and Alistair was slicing pear for them both when Hawke reappeared, an unreadable expression her face and hands clenched tightly into fists. Something had happened wherever she had been, likely with the Prince of Starkhaven and she wasn’t happy. 

Wordlessly, Alistair filled another glass to the brim with wine and pushed it towards his wife, who accepted it without sparing a glance, downing the contents in one desperate gulp. 

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

With roars of goodwill, Alistair and Hawke were escorted to the King’s quarters. A more generous and forceful push from their ‘well-wishers’ had them stumbling inside and towards the waiting bed. The doors slammed shut behind them with raucous leering filtering through the polished oak doors. Alistair and Hawke exchanged wry looks. The two stood in silence listening to the racket which didn’t sound like it was going to let up for some hours yet. Even with the removed obligation of keeping up appearances, relative peace still wasn’t going to be found for some time. 

“We could always go and knock some sense in them. Do you have any swords lying around?” Hawke spoke up over the someone’s catcalling as she looked around the spacious quarters. Then as an afterthought, she added: “When Aveline married we knew better than to stay close by. So, we left three bottles of ale and a note to Donnic reminding him of ‘buyer beware’. Apparently Aveline turned _red_. She never does that.”

Alistair couldn’t help but smirk. Kirkwall’s Guard-Captain was a stern and capable woman who was fiercely protective of Hawke. The first proper conversation that Alistair had with Aveline at the dinner table had been an uncomfortable one. Aveline had outlined the consequences for harming Hawke in anyway shape or form. But then the Guard-Captain’s fierceness had softened and Aveline had patted Alistair’s hand: _you’re good for Hawke, she needs some good in her life_ , she had said.

But Alistair was exhausted and the last thing he wanted to do was leave his quarters and risk being seen when he was meant to be consummating a marriage that he didn’t want in the first place. “Or we could stay here and keep drinking?” He suggested instead. There was also the fact that he was exhausted, but not physically tired: large social gatherings always tired him out.

Hawke didn’t argue his point, even though she seemed eager for a palace rampage. Instead she sat at the small table and pulling her heeled boots off, letting out a hiss of delight as her stockinged feet were freed from confining shoes. 

Alistair was still somewhat gobsmacked that Hawke was here, making herself at home. No, it wasn’t the first time that she had ended up in his quarters – more that she was now here as his _wife_ and he didn’t know what to make of that fact. Then Hawke pulled a bottle of something from within the folds of her dress and plunked it on the table decisively, looking up at Alistair expectedly. Cups, he could get them cups.

From a cabinet close by, Alistair pulled out two finely hammered small steel tankards. “Today wasn’t so bad was it?” Hawke asked as Alistair sloshed whiskey into their cups and slid Hawke’s tankard towards her. 

Since her return from Kirkwall, Hawke had said little. Their wedding was the most she had spoken in under a week. It was likely due to having her friends – _family_ – or Hawke, like Alistair had somewhat accepted the complicated hand that life had dealt her. Whichever it was, the Hawke that he had seen today had offered glimpses of the woman that Alistair remembered threatening him with a knife in a Kirkwall. For all of her reluctance, Ferelden had done Marian Hawke some good after all. 

Joining Hawke at the table, husband and wife clanked their tankards together in sarcastic toast: _to this bullshit farce of a marriage_ and downed their drinks in one. Without stopping to take a breath, Hawke poured first herself and then Alistair, a clunk of steel on steel and the contents were promptly swallowed. The conversation stayed on the safer topic of the day, it was pleasant and recounting the more light-hearted moments on such a stressful day was almost cathartic. When Alistair expressed his thoughts on Merrill and Aveline, Hawke hid a fond smile with her mug, but she knew that Alistair had seen it. 

Naturally, conversation turned to other things: of Ferelden and Kirkwall, of Ostagar and the Blight. Of their families or lack thereof. Hawke’s only family was Aveline and her husband Donnic, Merrill and Varric; her dwarf friend had reluctantly remained behind in Kirkwall – Hawke surprisingly, didn’t hide her sorrow at not having her other friend with her in Ferelden. Instead, she poured them both another drink and changed the subject with a well-placed joke. 

Flippant humour was a shield that both Hawke and Alistair employed when a topic of conversation reached a little too close to home. But this marriage, and everything that lead up to it was a shared situation: they were both victims of political machinations that went further than themselves. A comfortable silence fell between them and Alistair pulled his boots off, Hawke, massaging the aches out of her feet.

Cold eventually chased them to Alistair’s bed with whiskey in tow. Alistair pulled his jacket off, relieved to be out of the stiff, formal fabric and unbuckled his belt before making himself comfortable. After a day on his feet, the soft bed seemed Maker-sent. Hawke in her never-ending quest for comfort had pulled out a small knife from what seemed like nowhere. 

Alistair raised his brows in question. Hawke grinned at him savagely.

“We’ll tell those idiots that you cut me out of it.” She informed Alistair as she cut through the soft fabric of the dress. Leaving behind a pile of fine stain, velvet and lace on the floor, Hawke flopped onto the bed sitting easier in her shift and drawers. Alistair handed Hawke her cup and they finished their drinks.

The candles around them burnt lower and lower as they talked into the night and soon, they were sitting in semi-darkness. Despite Alistair’s easy candidness, now he hesitated at divulging every detail, like he would have originally. Though they considered one another as friends, in the wake of their marriage the many steps forward had meant taking one very big step backwards. It was to be expected of course, but the King and Viscountess navigated this new obstacle with relative care and ease. They would have to get past it, if they were to be a working team after all. 

Eventually, the cold had chased them under the thick covers.

This was opposite to waking up and finding Hawke asleep next to him, now they lay facing one another and their conversation consisted of soft whispers. The buzz of whiskey certainly helped in providing warmth, or so that’s what Alistair told himself as he became aware that Hawke was lying next to him in only a shift.

Then Hawke asked: “Why me?”

There was a vulnerability about her that Alistair had never seen before. She was curled up on her side, knees tucked into her chest and Alistair reached for her without thinking, sliding his warmer fingers between colder ones. 

“I told you when you first came to Denerim. A necessary evil, remember? Though after today’s display you’re probably Ferelden’s new darling.” Alistair was rewarded for his effort with a scoff of amusement and the tighter curl of fingers around his.

“If I didn’t marry you, I was going to be surrendered to the Templars as a deserter.” Alistair had been trying to piece the story together for months now, with careful questions that highlighted what was truly happening in Kirkwall. But he would never have thought such an extreme would have been reached in the city-state. Hawke’s admission carried with it assured omissions: it wasn’t the whole story, there was much more to this compelling and infuriating narrative.

Hawke sniffed in the dim light and Alistair could see the shine of tears. Hesitantly, Alistair brushed them away, expecting Hawke to bat his hand away, but all she did was flinch at his touch. 

“What happened in Kirkwall, really?”

Hawke didn’t answer his question, but inched closer instead. Her hand snaked underneath the covers to brush over Alistair’s arm before coming to rest on Alistair’s waist. Their noses brushed and Alistair shifted, moving his arm over her hip so a hand could press against her back. Even over the musky perfume that she had worn, Alistair could still smell the familiar scent of steel on Hawke’s skin.

It was unfathomable that Alistair had ended up where he was, married to a warrior-woman who he was beginning to discover had a complexity that was intangible. Alistair was beginning to think that he’d never figure Marian Hawke out, not that it was a bad thing. Hawke shifted again, their noses brushing, reminded of the fact that Hawke was all but pressed against him now. 

“I’m glad it’s you.” Marian whispered before their lips touched.

Alistair had always imagined that the first night of a husband and his wife to be one of lovemaking. A night spent with tempered sighs, soft caresses and careful whispers of affection. Instead this night was reminiscent of their first meeting: a night of whiskey-fuelled kisses, heightened by anger and the flurry of frustration at the circumstances that had brought them together in the first place. 

Then Hawke was tugging on the ties of his breeches. Alistair had pulled Hawke’s shift up, pushing her drawers down with his hand so he could grip her bottom. With a hiss of satisfaction, Hawke beat the knot and yanked Alistair’s pants down and kicked her drawers away before moving them so she could sit atop of Alistair, eliciting a hist of his own. His hands on her waist guided the urgent roll of Hawke’s hips and made Alistair’s fingers dig into fabric and skin, enticing moans from Hawke that made Alistair gasp as she moved against him. 

It was in this way that they used one another, Alistair eliciting cries of pleasure from Hawke until she fell forwards, her hips twitching in phantom pleasure, her hand between her legs as she bucked against him, finding her own pleasure. The smell of Hawke, the taste of her on his lips was overwhelming – better than what memory could ever provide – and overcome, Alistair found his own release. 

He could hear and feel the racing beat of Hawke’s heart. Alistair’s hands rested heavily on her back, moving up and down in a soothing gesture, Hawke’s shift damp with sweat after their exertions. Hawke didn’t move, an ear pressed to his chest. It was a comforting moment, one that Alistair appreciated.

“Marian” Hawke murmured. Alistair started with a hum.

“You should probably call me Marian.” She reiterated. Alistair ran his fingers through her hair that had come undone. “Can I call you Marian?” He clarified in a whisper, for Hawke’s ears alone.

Alistair swore that he felt Marian Hawke smile against his chest. 

The night passed with lazy kisses and continued conversation. It was early morning when Hawke – Marian – touched Alistair again. This time, they moved slower, carefully exploring one another with the time afforded of them. There was no need for hurried dalliances anymore, the day was theirs, if they wanted it. Alistair pushed hair out of Marian’s eyes as their hips met in concerted rhythm.

And then light was filtering through the drawn curtains and Hawke – Marian – was next to Alistair, a leg flung over his waist, a muscled arm spattered with freckles and scarred lines, asleep. His own arm that Hawke used as a pillow pulled her closer in unspoken promise as she slept and Alistair closed his arms, committing this to memory.

But their solitary bliss was interrupted too soon when someone banged loudly on the doors. Alistair resolutely kept his eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge whoever was outside his door.

 _I’m a King, I shouldn’t have to answer my own door_. Alistair thought crossly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping woman sprawled across him. The door banged again, if possible, louder than before.

Marian Hawke was rather irritable when suddenly awoken. “We’re trying to sleep in here you know!” she hollered. The insistent banging on the door suddenly doubled in effort. Alistair groaned in exasperation.

Swearing under her breath, threatening the lives of whoever was on the other side of the door, Hawke attempted to ignore the intruders to no avail. Eventually Hawke gave in to the continued knocks, pushing herself away from Alistair and clumsily rolling out of the bed. Naked, she stooped to pick up her discarded shift as she made for the doorway. 

“Come husband,” Marian said. “Let’s go face the music.” 

**End of Part II**


	14. Part III: Chapter Thirteen: Velitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And onto Part III! 
> 
> Please note, warnings may apply for this chapter.

**Velitation:** A slight skirmish, or controversy. 

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

“Where is Hawke? The _Queen_?” Alistair inquired to Hawke’s handmaid. Alistair had caught himself, hastily tacking on Hawke’s – _Marian’s –_ new title rather hastily. It had taken Alistair half a moment to remember the handmaid’s name in question: Svea, that he had forgotten formalities. 

Eamon had made a point of steadily correcting his nephew whenever Alistair referred to Hawke as anything but by her appropriate title in public: _Queen, Her Royal Highness, Her Majesty._ Alistair had regaled Hawke – Marian – with this new development over dinner one night, making her snort into her whiskey. _You can call me whatever you like. But if you’re going to give me a nickname, it better be freaking good. Varric never gave me one_. She’d commented, saluting Alistair with her glass before downing the contents.

Svea curtsied before answering” “The Queen left for Fort Drakon, Your Majesty. She departed after breakfast.” Alistair frowned, but thanked Svea. Returning to his quarters, Alistair changed into more appropriate attire for a visit to the stronghold of Ferelden’s army: armour. 

Marian Hawke had surprisingly slotted herself easily into everyday life and court affairs after their marriage. Alistair had dismissed Eamon’s romanticisation of Marian’s story as melodramatic, but with the people of Ferelden, Marian Hawke was more than accepted: she was praised, admired even. They had accepted King’s choice. With state-affairs, Marian Hawke was formidable – blunt and to the point. Even with her new responsibilities, Marian Hawke diligently addressed Kirkwall affairs, confining herself to her desk in the office that Alistair shared with her from dawn to dusk. 

It was on those long days that Alistair noticed how Marian handled herself. That echo of a former self remembered best after a glass or three of whiskey. Alistair had never been able to quite put his finger on the drastic switch. Only that it was there. 

Alistair had grown used to Marian leaving word of her whereabouts. Even with the stresses of their new marriage and court life, it had become a common event to receive a note detailing where Marian Hawke would end up in her day. To not receive a note meant that something was wrong, or perhaps something had happened. For Alistair, who had procrastinated at his desk most of the morning, state matters could wait until he’d spoken with Hawke at Fort Drakon directly. 

The King of Ferelden arrived at Fort Drakon, which bustled with activity. The guards standing on duty saluted Alistair’s arrival, quickly informing their King the whereabouts of the Queen of Ferelden. The new Queen of Ferelden had become a frequent and welcomed sight about Fort Drakon. Her experience in Ferelden’s army combined with her own experiences in Kirkwall had given her a unique edge over Ferelden’s soldiers. An edge that made her experience very much in demand.

Alistair found the Queen of Ferelden in the training ring, instructing squires of Ferelden. Both the Queen and her student were sturdy hardened leather armour, which afforded adequate protection against a wayward hit from the wasters that was in their hands. They’d walk away from their spar intact, with only bruises to show for their efforts.

With a loud and feminine roar, Alistair was completely unprepared to witness Marian Hawke – _Queen Marian of Ferelden_ – face up against two squires at once. An audience had gathered, eager to watch how the Queen held up against the two squires. Judging from the determined frown, Marian wasn’t happy with the unexpected audience.

With her waster that was fashioned like its heavier, metal counterpart, Marian knocked one of her opponents out of the ring with a timed knock to the gut. Like his fellows, Alistair winced in remembered pain. Such a blow would ache for the next few days, but the squire would survive. 

The spectators egged on their chosen champion when Queen and squire locked swords. Cheers around the ring rose in volume as the stalemate continued on. This stalemate could only be broken by sheer strength or incredible luck. But many had forgotten _who_ the Queen of Ferelden was.

Alistair’s practiced eye spotted Marian’s feet slipping in the dirt. As she scrambled in the dirt, it would be likely that she would be the first to yield. Suddenly, Marian went crashing to her knees, expertly ducking the strike from her opponent as momentum carried the waster forward in a slashing motion. If live weapons were involved, such a move could make or break a duel, but the move was enough to throw off Marian’s unpracticed opponent.

The squire advanced forward, waster moving in quick, slashing movements which Marian blocked easily. Marian’s waster collided with her opponents in a dull clunk of wood and in the next moment, Marian had knocked the waster from her opponent’s. The encounter would be over in an instant, if the squire didn’t have the ability to engage in hand-to-hand combat.

Yet the young lad gave it his best shot, seeking to best the Queen of Ferelden by sheer force alone. Hawke wasn’t one to give up, however. She jabbed her opponent in the side, making the squire falter. The audience tittered in the move. Alistair had crossed his arms, a hand casually resting across his mouth in order to hide his amusement.

Alistair blinked and in that moment the squire was in the dirt, yielding to the Queen of Ferelden.

_Maker she’s beautiful._ Alistair stopped himself at the errant thought.

The King of Ferelden was content to stand and wait for his Queen. Marian stood, her chest heaving with exertion even as she beckoned her pupils over and began to give them feedback on the spar – what they could have done different to ensure victory.

Alistair couldn’t blame the spectatorship that had flocked to watch the Queen spar. A wry grin was treated to anyone who was brave enough to meet Alistair’s gaze: he wouldn’t inform their superiors why they had been absent from their duties. Watching the Queen of Ferelden beat two of Ferelden’s squires was a rare sight to behold after all.

Seeing his opportunity, Alistair called out to Marian: “Your majesty.”

The Queen’s expression morphed from critical to dour in an instant. Alistair was quickly becoming convinced that _he_ was the source of her ire. The reason why was anyone’s guess. 

There was a brief pause, in which Marian gave Alistair a critical look. “The King will show you what not to do.” Marian announced to her pupils. 

Alistair cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”

A waster was handed to him. “Hawke?” He asked, concerned.

“Block me.” Marian ordered and swung her sword before Alistair was able to object again.

Instinct made Alistair move to block Marian and then to _keep moving_. For a woman who wielded a great sword, she was fast. Faster than Alistair would have expected in fact. How she kept up a running commentary of her movements was another story all together. Hawke’s onslaught was relentless, and Alistair saw what she was trying to convey to her students.

Alistair was leading Marian around the sparring ring in big circles. It was more difficult than he cared to admit with each block. When Hawke’s commentary fizzled out, Alistair picked up where she had left off. 

Through his training with the Order, Alistair had come to prefer fighting with a sword and shield. He fought mainly with his shield, bashing his way through opponents, using the pommel for added insult before slashing his foes when they were down. That wasn’t to say he couldn’t pick up a great sword and do what Marian was doing, it just would be much more effort to ensure an effective onslaught. Much like the one Marian Hawke was inflicting on him to make her point.

The Queen of Ferelden had a determined look in her eyes. Alistair decided that yes, she was pissed off about something. Alistair decided that he needed to up his training regime. 

Another crowd had gathered around the ring, this time likely because the King and Queen of Ferelden were personally providing a tutorial. It was a rare show indeed for the soldiers, seeing who the stronger and arguably more capable fighter was.

Dodging Marian’s stab, Alistair grinned at her before proclaiming that he bet his silver on the Queen of Ferelden to win. The responding cheer, Alistair hoped, was hopefully enough to incense Hawke into doing something stupid. Marian played straight into Alistair’s game. Stepping backwards, Marian pivoted on her heel, turning too quickly and she crashed to the ground.

Alistair gently tapped the tip of his waster on the leather gorget that protected her neck. “Want to tell me what’s going on, _sweetheart_?” He asked sarcastically. Marian took the bait; hook, line and sinker. One well placed kick and Alistair was on the dirt beside her, his own waster pressed against his gut.

“Talking down to your opponents _will_ get you killed.” Marian finished. Alistair shook his head at his smart-ass wife.

“And _we_ need to talk.” Alistair muttered under his breath, pushing himself to his feet. Marian whacked him on the thigh, hard. 

“You know what you did.”

Marian ignored the hand that Alistair offered to her, using her waster to stand instead. “I’m going back to the palace.” Marian snipped. 

“Then we’ll walk back.” Alistair told her.

Marian scoffed and took off ahead of him. Alistair wasn’t one to force another into doing something that they didn’t want to do, but even he could see that Marian wouldn’t fight him on this. A walk through Denerim back to the palace was something that they did infrequently, much to Eamon’s disdain. Eamon still disapproved of them walking relatively unprotected, until he’d seen just how many knives Hawke – _Marian –_ liked to carry on her person. Alistair like to think that his uncle was slowly changing his mind.

This wasn’t the pleasant meandering that Alistair had enjoyed with Marian in the past. Hawke powered on ahead making Alistair walk that little bit faster in order to keep up with his wife. The escorting guard moving around them had their work cut out for them this time. 

Alistair had quickly learnt that Marian Hawke, when confronted with an issue that she didn’t wish to speak about, liked to ignore it and change the topic. Alistair had also learnt that if he persevered through her rapidly changing moods as a silent companion, she would eventually talk. Probably she then she would be left alone. It wasn’t an exactly a foolproof method, but it worked. All Alistair had to do was keep up with her and wait. 

It wasn’t until they’d reached the palace, entering the familiar halls that Marian finally spoke what was on her mind. It had rained earlier in the day, chasing everyone inside, making their return trip faster than what was normal. The only people outside were those who had to be.

Stomping mud from the road over the runner down the hallway, Marian stopped and turned on her heel suddenly. The glare that was levelled on Alistair could have stopped a bronto. Alistair winced. 

“Look, if you want to keep a lover that is your decision. I won’t stand in your way. In fact, I’ll go _out_ of my way to help you get your rocks off.” The outburst was more confusing than Marian trying to avoid Alistair in the first place. 

Alistair was still baffled, first on Marian’s silence and now, what had prompted this outburst.

He didn’t know what had prompted this at all. In the few days after their marriage, Alistair and Hawke had agreed that they would stand with one another. They were friends after all. As far as Alistair was concerned, the subject of lovers hadn’t needed to be broached at all. He had no desire to take a lover nor a wife. If he’d been able to out manoeuvre the Bannorn, Alistair likely wouldn’t have married at all. Hawke knew this and had echoed similar sentiments of her own.

Sex with Marian Hawke on the other hand had become an unspoken arrangement for stress relief. Much more convenient than hitting things with sticks. It was comforting, safe even – he knew what he was getting into where Marian Hawke was concerned. Her frankness meant that they would always be on the same page, unless Marian didn’t want to talk about it. Which was how Alistair found himself somewhat taken aback that Hawke thought he was wanting a lover on the side. 

If anything, Alistair had expected this conversation to come from Marian wanting to pursue things with a lover of her own. Mainly the seemingly unfinished business between her and the Prince of Starkhaven.

“I beg your pardon?” Alistair finally asked.

“I _will not_ be made a fool of Alistair.” Marian shouldered her way into her quarters, which were connected to Alistair’s by way of a small passage. Alistair paused on the threshold, this was Marian’s space and he had been reluctant to invade it even though the connective doors always remained open – implying that he was welcome in her space as much as she was in his.

“What are you talking about?” Alistair objected. Marian was haphazardly trying to pull her armour off in her frustration and it didn’t seem to be working. Alistair closed the door behind him, stepping forward to offer her a hand, which was slapped away from his efforts.

Disbelief was etched on Marian’s features. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you. _Elissa Cousland_?”

“What does Elissa have to do with this?” Alistair exclaimed.

“ _Everyone_ saw you two. I know I’m not much to look at it, but you don’t have to make it so obvious that I’m not desirable.”

It took Alistair a moment to figure what Hawke was going on about. The last time Alistair had seen Elissa was at his wedding. She’d left for Highever the next day and Alistair hadn’t heard from her since. Alistair missed Elissa’s easy company, disliking the new stiff and awkward formality she had suddenly adopted around him. It was unusual enough that even Fergus had made an odd comment about his sister’s behaviour. Alistair had brushed it off, only to then remember what had happened in the library after the Landsmeet.

Elissa had made herself clear without expressively saying anything. And whilst Alistair was unsure if he reciprocated what Elissa displayed, he had been suspicious of how much was Anora’s skilful manipulations and what was real. Alistair had insisted that Anora’s little game be kept quiet, to protect Elissa as much as to take away the power between Anora’s words. Alistair had seen firsthand the power of words and the damage they were capable of.

Such words had destroyed a Chantry and swept through the Free Marches, the same words that were beginning to rumble with discontent in Ferelden. He wouldn’t be party to such power ruining Elissa’s reputation.

Alistair however couldn’t help but laugh at Marian’s ridiculously petty words. “Undesirable?” Alistair questioned, crossing his arms. Hawke’s brow furrowed with annoyance as she continued tugging on her armour and didn’t respond.

“Marian, the self-deprecating marks are my responsibility in this marriage, thank you very much.”

“Alistair, this isn’t a joke.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Alistair hedged.

Marian scoffed and twisted off loosened armour pieces of her arms, discarding carelessly at the foot of the made bed. “Elissa returned to Highever after our wedding. How could we have been seen together if she isn’t even in Denerim?”

“Then why are you both all of a sudden in the library together?” Marian shot back. This new rumour was old information. Did the court gossips have nothing to do with their spare time?

“I didn’t think you’d listen to courtly gossip, _wife_.”

“When it concerns our ‘marriage’ I do, _husband_.” Alistair raised his brows.

If Alistair didn’t know better, he would have said that Hawke was jealous. An amused smirk grew on his face and he was rewarded with a sharp smack to the gut. Marian was still struggling to reach the ties on her chest piece, hindered by hardened leather armour.

“Are you going to let me help you?” Alistair asked pointedly. Marian shook her head irritably and struggled for half a moment longer before giving in. At her acquiescing glare, Alistair easily pulled the cord free of its knot and lifted the armour over her head. The shirt she wore underneath was soaked with sweat and with a disgusted noise, Marian pulled it off.

“It’s gossip, Marian.” Alistair told her and it was. There was always something left unsaid between Marian and himself, both of them treading too carefully around each other. Marian was right in her own roundabout way; to be a strong team and present a unified front meant that they both had to be forthcoming with one another. This was one of those inadvertent challenges.

Marian pulled on a clean shirt. Alistair made his decision.

“Sit down and I’ll explain.”

*** * * * * * * * * ***

Anora reread the letter from Threnn and let out an exasperated sigh. The King had married the Viscountess of Kirkwall and crowned her queen, Cauthrien had been assigned to the Queen’s detail and Elissa had returned to Highever to nurse a broken heart. Anora’s carefully considered plans had blown up in her face.

Only Threnn seemed to have continued faith that Anora could salvage the tatters of her original plan. The soldier sent frequent updates of happenings around the palace. Threnn was a capable soldier, transferred into a supportive role because she continuously challenged the King’s authority. Her talent as a soldier and intel gatherer was wasted. Threnn’s reports were succinct, detailing information gleaned from conversations with fellow soldiers, not only of the King’s movements but the Viscountess’s integration into Ferelden court life. Information that Anora could use.

It was Threnn that described an interlude that the King had with Elissa Cousland in the palace library, where the King had been sighted caressing Elissa’s cheek with a fondness that he hadn’t shown another woman. A sighting only hours after the Viscountess of Kirkwall had been presented to the Landsmeet and Anora had thought her game had reached a premature conclusion.

Anora wouldn’t be able to reach the Viscountess like she had reached Elissa.

The Viscountess was a woman who commanded respect with directness and hard truths. Anora admired such qualities, appreciated them even. Through these blunt leadership qualities, Kirkwall was still managing to stand. Through those qualities, the Viscountess would be a fierce Queen for Ferelden. The Viscountess was likely unaware that since her arrival in Ferelden that Anora considered her an adversary. 

Threnn’s letter of a potential dalliance between the King and Lady Cousland had been met with wordless thanks to the Maker. This moment of weakness could be framed into a moment of opportunity, to threaten the seemingly strong political marriage that the King had entered into with the Viscountess of Kirkwall. 

Anora knew what needed to be done to shatter the King’s new marriage. She had been subject to such actions herself once upon a time.

Elissa had made putting pressure on the King that little bit harder with her departure to Highever. Anora had been unable to find a reason that the younger woman should return – nonetheless stay in Denerim after the royal marriage. With Elissa’s departure, Anora had been forced to exclude Elissa from her plans. For the moment at least. 

Threnn had been a dear in making sure that gossip about the King and Elissa had swept through the palace and then Denerim marketplace. It wasn’t just the courtiers who speculated on King Alistair’s fidelity now, but the very people the King served as well. 

Anora had thought she would have had a little victory there at least.

The rumours had reached the palace and then wandered into the Queen’s ear. Threnn had reported the King and Queen arguing loudly enough to draw a lot of attention. But then, much to everyone’s surprise, they had taken their evening meal together before retiring to the King’s bedchamber.

The Queen of Ferelden quickly was becoming a thorn in Anora’s side. One that needed to be removed sooner rather than later. Engineering a divide was going to be much harder than Anora had originally thought without Elissa in Denerim to be the beautiful distraction for the King.

Pulling a sheet of paper towards her, Anora unstoppered her ink bottle and penned a hasty reply to Threnn. If one rumour had caused a loud argument, then she would relentlessly pepper the King and Queen with other pieces of gossip. There was more ammunition in Threnn’s reports than perhaps even Threnn realized and Anora fully intended on using them.

A tour around the marketplace had been a happy exercise in planting doubt about the Viscountess’s motivations in Kirkwall. Citizens of Denerim were a nosy lot, forever poking their noses into others business. All Anora had to do was ask cutting questions such as: _why has the Queen not addressed the mage-templar conflict in the Free Marchers?_ And _what is the Queen doing in Ferelden when her own city struggles?_

If the former Queen of Ferelden questioned the Viscountess of Kirkwall, then so would the people of Denerim. Anora had sowed the seeds of discontent, the people of Ferelden would ensure they were watered and grew. The King had played his cards carefully by drawing parallels between Queen Marian and Queen Rowan. Anora planned now to destroy the Viscountess’s reputation from the ground up. Another nail in the coffin for King Alistair.

Finishing her instructions, Anora sealed the unmarked envelope and placed it aside for Threnn. She would visit late in the evening. 

Sealing her instructions in an unmarked envelope for Threnn, who would visit in the evening. Anora sat back in her chair and laced her fingers together with a frown.

Cauthrien had gone from visiting daily to not at all, and Anora found that she was sorely missing the Ferelden knight. That’s not to say that there weren’t other acquaintances who sat with Anora and prattled on about nothing in particular. Cauthrien, however, brought with her a sense of intimate company that others couldn’t emulate. It said a lot that Anora would take Cauthrien’s stern disapproval in this moment just so she could be in her company. 

It was a spur of the moment decision that had Anora dashing into her room, changing from the older everyday dress that she wore into a pale blue gown suitable for presenting to a Queen of Ferelden. Anora sought a way to undo the Viscountess of Kirkwall from the Ferelden throne and in turn, destabilise the King. Calling on the Queen of Ferelden as her peer wasn’t out of place. The only obstacle would be if the King were to deny Anora an audience with the Queen.

At least she could seek Cauthrien out at least.

Though if Anora’s impressions on the Viscountess were correct, being denied an audience wouldn’t be a problem, she’d just have to create a spectacle grand enough to catch the Viscountess’s attention.

To compliment her visit to the palace, Anora brought a bottle of wine as a small gift for the newly wed monarchs. The guardsmen on duty greeted Anora with respectful curiosity, despite her partially exiled status. Anora was still remembered and respected in her own right and that respect was something that she commanded. Standing on the other side of the velvet rope, so to speak was a surreal moment. Anora refused to let it bother her anymore than it already had. Patiently she stood, waiting for the footman to return with the Viscountess’s decision to see her.

Anora didn’t expect the Viscountess of Kirkwall to be with the footman to greet her personally. 

Anora’s first judgement was one of appearance. The Viscountess’s clothes were clean but worn, and too big on her slight frame and her hair was still wet, from her bath. Etiquette clearly wasn’t the Viscountess’s strongpoint either, judging from the way she beckoned for Anora to follow her. It baffled Anora that _anyone_ would approve of such an uncouth candidate to wear the mantle of Queen. Despite these judgements, Anora maintained the polite smile that was pasted on her face. The Viscountess showed her unexpected guest into a parlour that had once been Anora’s to use. Entering the room had been more nostalgic than Anora had thought it would be. The furniture inside the parlour, warmed by the suns rays was still in the same places that Anora had arranged it in all those years ago.

“Tea?” The Viscountess offered, pointing to the tea-tray that sat on the smaller table untouched. 

“Thank you.” Anora accepted, reaching for the teapot only to have her hand waved away. The Viscountess personally served Anora tea, offering her sweets that had remained untouched. 

Anora was so thrown off at being served by the Viscountess of Kirkwall that she accepted one of the sweets with her tea without question.

“I remember you. At Ostagar you came with King Cailan’s delegation. You toured Ferelden’s army with Loghain.” There was a hard bitterness to the Viscountess’s voice and Anora started. She knew that the new Queen had been a soldier in Ferelden’s army. This was a piece of news that Anora filed away carefully: _The Queen of Ferelden survived Ostagar because she deserted with Loghain’s forces._ Anora could already see how she would spin such information.

It was painful that Anora would have to besmirch her father’s work to orchestrate that downfall. 

“The King told me about you too.” The Viscountess offered up. Anora sipped her tea instead of letting a scathing remark cross her lips. The Viscountess picked up a cup that most certainly didn’t hold tea and took a long gulp. Anora’s lip curled. _Delightful_.

“I find it quite remarkable that the King allowed you to stay in Denerim. Allowing you relative freedoms despite pronouncing you an exile. Don’t you find that interesting?” The Viscountess’s words had a dangerous edge to them and this time, Anora didn’t hide her frown.

“I wanted to speak with you. Queen to queen.” Anora explained instead. Something told her that the Viscountess was heading into territory that she not only didn’t want to talk about but could lead to an exchange of words that Anora didn’t want to have.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall pierced Anora with a glare that would make most, if not all the people on receiving end take a couple big steps backwards. Anora was one of the few who refused to be cowed by such a display of intimidation. So Anora took another prolonged sip of tea feigning nonchalance when it was anything but.

The Viscountess scoffed. “Queen to queen?” She leaned forward and took the saucer out of Anora’s hands, which left her sitting stunned.

“There’s only one queen in this room and that queen isn’t you.” There was something dangerous about the way the Viscountess sat. That little something told Anora that she needed to quit the room immediately. 

“I will say this once _Lady Anora_.” The Viscountess sneered. “Fucking with me and mine _isn’t_ a good idea.” Anora shook her head, feigning that same easy nonchalance. Standing, she made a show of brushing invisible crumbs from the fabric of her dress. 

“Thank you for the tea.” Anora said with the slightest inclination of her head.

The Viscountess leaned back in her seat. “Don’t show your face here again. You’re not welcome.”

Anora didn’t bother with pleasantries or the appropriate etiquette. The Viscountess wasn’t worth the effort, nor the show of respect. Head held high, Anora glided regally from the parlour. This time, Anora would depart the palace without a soldier escort. The smallest of victories. 

Cauthrien was standing at the doors and Anora couldn’t help the bright smile at the sight of the knight. Anora would never tire of seeing Cauthrien in armour. She went to ask if Cauthrien would be able to escort her home; the smallest of excuses to spend the smallest amount of time with the knight, but Cauthrien cut her off.

“I’m sorry Anora, King’s orders.” There was no missing the pained expression in her tone and when Cauthrien stepped forward, Anora stepped back. Cauthrien took another step forward.

“I’m sorry.” Cauthrien’s apology fell on deaf ears as the heavy iron shackles locked around Anora’s wrists. Anora didn’t struggle, it was useless. Cauthrien and Anora locked gazes and for the second time in Anora’s life, despair cloaked her at Cauthrien’s betrayal. 

Anora didn’t have to ask, Cauthrien’s guilt was etched plain on her face to see. 


	15. Part III: Chapter Fourteen: Parting of Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.

**Parting of Ways:** A point at which two people must separate or, where a decision must be taken.

_Highever, 9:38 Dragon_

Bloomingtide was one of Elissa’s favourite months out of a year. The sun was hot on her back, the sea-breeze was cool and refreshing in the afternoon. Sitting in the shade of massive fir trees, the hot sun filtering through the leaves whilst tucking into a lunch of cheese and bread. Then after, running into the crashing waves, the salty water cold and refreshing in the balmy afternoons. It was always a welcome reprieve after a day’s work. After the stone streets of Denerim, Elissa was to be home. Though her heart ached, Highever would always be her home and it would never leave her aching and wanting for someone who couldn’t be hers.

Such heartache was the reason she had thrown herself into business for Highever. Elissa’s endeavours in Denerim on her brother’s behalf had been a success. If terynir business was preoccupying her mind – there would be nothing else to distract her, especially the King of Ferelden. When business matters had dwindled, Elissa had sought out the distractions of Highever. Walking the coastal trails and traversing through the dense green forest with the sound of the Waking Sea in her ears was soothing. Walking barefoot along the shoreline, picking amongst the flotsam and jetsam washed ashore was distracting.

The natural distractions of Highever made dealing with her heartache a little more bearable. It was easy to get lost under the trees of Highever, inhaling the comforting smell of salt on the wind fresh off the sea. This beauty had once helped her grieve the brutal death of her family. Highever had allowed her to heal once. Now Elissa hoped that getting lost amongst the beauty of Highever once again would allow her to reconcile her infatuation for the King of Ferelden. 

And thus, Elissa found herself a routine. Her mornings were dedicated to administrative demands of the terynir, accompanied by other business that would fall onto her desk at Fergus’s request. After lunch, she would walk Highever with Ser Barksley, allowing the hound to choose their destination. Some days hound and mistress would walk off path through the woods and Elissa would return with an apron full of strawberries, bunches of watercress or rock samphire. Other days, they would meander along the beach, the sound of crashing waves loud enough to interrupt the wayward thoughts that entered Elissa’s mind.

On one particular warm day, Barksley took Elissa into the woods, when she had left Highever proper rather hastily.

Gossip from Denerim of the King and his new Queen had reached Highever with speed like a wildfire. It was painful to hear of the newly wed monarchs and their flourishing relationship. Distancing herself from the gossip was much easier for Elissa, whilst also trying to ignore the errant wish that it was _her_ that stood by the King’s side and not the Viscountess of Kirkwall.

That was not to say that Elissa held ill-will towards the new Queen of Ferelden. On the contrary, she wished the King every bit of happiness that he deserved. It was a bitter moment to reflect that perhaps the King _had_ wanted Elissa in some way. Elissa vividly recalled how Alistair had cradled her face like she was a delicate flower. For that moment in the library at least, King Alistair had wanted _her_. Yet despite that moment where they had both forgotten themselves, it had been the Viscountess that the King had chosen in the end. Elissa had questioned and doubted, _hated_ even what Anora had told her – what Elissa had convinced herself was truth – it was all wrong. _They_ had been wrong.

Elissa didn’t ask the King _why_ ; it wasn’t her place to question. Yet not understanding that choice was what made Elissa’s heartache the most. Returning home to Highever after the royal wedding had been like taking a badly needed breath of fresh air. The days had passed and with it, the pain that Elissa carried within seemed to hurt less and less.

Returning to Highever had been a badly needed breath of fresh air. Each passing day, the pain that she carried within hurt less and less. But hearing about the King and Queen and their post-wedding bliss only made Elissa want to escape Highever proper, even if it were just for the afternoon.

That afternoon walk, the air was earthy and cool underneath the tree canopy. A breeze rustled amongst the firs and Barksley had disappeared into the underbrush, ferreting out one thing or another. Being away from Highever castle and the gossip was a relief, even if it were only for the remainder of the afternoon. 

With the setting sun warning their backs, Elissa and Barksley returned to Highever castle. The sky was coloured deep red, purple and orange – a promise for another warm day tomorrow. Elissa’s gift to the kitchens that day was a sizeable bunch of elderflowers, with the hopes that she would be rewarded with elderflower cordial for her troubles. 

Fergus was in the sitting room, head buried in correspondence when Elissa found him after refreshing herself after her afternoon jaunt. The afternoon jaunt with Barksley had resulted in dirty hands, muddy boots and prickles on the hem of her skirt. After a quick bath and a change of dress, Elissa had sought out her brother. Yet when her brother didn’t look up from his work, Elissa waved a hand in front of his face to capture his attention. 

“Fergus?” Elissa incredulously. Fergus looked up from whatever it was he was writing, and Elissa smiled at her brother fondly.

“We need to go to Denerim.” Fergus said by way of greeting. Immediately Elissa shook her head.

Elissa hadn’t told Fergus of what had transpired in Denerim. The on-going relationship between Crown and Teryn was far more important and vital than some wayward feelings after all. When Fergus had questioned her sudden departure from Denerim, Elissa had feigned homesickness. It wasn’t a complete lie, for all of the distractions that Denerim offered, it was too cluttered and busy. Highever had charms that Denerim would never be able to replicate. Fergus understood that, but Elissa couldn’t fathom why they would have to so suddenly return to Denerim.

“No, no. There is no need for me to go with you. I’ll see you off and stay here.” Elissa said quickly, too quickly. 

Fergus held out a letter with a familiar golden border around the edge of the paper. At the bottom was a familiar signature, the King’s signature. 

“Alistair has summoned you specifically to court.” Fergus explained with a frown. Elissa frowned too, an identical one to her brother. There was no reason that Elissa could think of that would require a direct summons by the monarchy. If it were a courtly matter, then the summons would have come from the Queen, not the King. 

Despite her own inner turmoil, Elissa took the missive from her brother and skimmed the contents. It cited no reason for her summoning other than Elissa being required to travel with haste to Denerim, sending word of her departure from Highever immediately. 

The King typically left a small note jotted in an awkward corner. But on this summons, there was nothing – no note of familiarity to be found at all. “The King didn’t write anything separate, offering why?” Elissa asked with an air of bafflement. Her heart was beating quicker and quicker. 

Elissa tried to ignore the small kernel of hope for something that was likely entirely imagined. _Alistair wouldn’t have changed his mind, not now. Don’t be the fool_. Elissa berated herself.

“Is there nothing you can say to persuade the King that he doesn’t need me in Denerim?” The question came out more as a plea.

Fergus regarded Elissa before shaking his head regrettably. “Just because we are fortunate to have a friendship with the King means we can disregard an order.”

“There have been numerous times you’ve disregarded the King!” Elissa objected, desperate now.

“Never when he has given me an express order.”

“That’s a load of crock and you know it.”

Fergus stood up sharply. “I am sorry sister, but you cannot disobey this order. We leave for Denerim tomorrow.” His tone was final, brooking no room for further argument. Elissa would have to obey this, no matter how much she objected to it.

Tears welled in her eyes, her throat thickening and Elissa turned on her heel, leaving her brother alone. Only in the relative safety of her quarters, did Elissa allow tears to flow freely. 

*** * * * * * * * * ***

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

Fergus personally escorted Elissa to the palace.

Brother and sister had argued like no one in Highever had ever heard before. Since then, Elissa had spoken the bare minimum to her brother. The journey to Denerim, which was usually an enjoyable and relaxing one had been one fraught with anxiety as Elissa tried to determine just why the King had ordered her back to Denerim. The feud with Fergus hardly helped – Elissa couldn’t even remember the last time she hadn’t wanted to confide to her brother. 

Their arrival in Denerim hadn’t been exactly smooth either. Fergus had allowed a detour via Highever estate so as to allow Elissa to make herself presentable to the King after the two-day horseback ride. There, Elissa had tried once more to resist the Teryn of Highever’s will, to no avail. The household, usually one that was light-hearted and homely took on a certain chill despite the warmer weather. 

Fergus had sent a messenger ahead to alert the King of their pending arrival and when Fergus strode into the palace with Elissa following silently on his heels, they were informed that the King was waiting for a private audience with Elissa only. 

Days old nerves that had been frazzled since the King’s summons transformed into panic. Forgetting her anger towards her brother, Elissa stepped towards Fergus almost instinctually. Their argument temporarily forgotten, Fergus touched Elissa’s back in a reassuring gesture, sensing his sister’s distress.

“I will be waiting here, sister.” Fergus tried to reassure.

The footman turned to Fergus. “Her majesty wanted to speak with you directly, Teryn.” Elissa frowned. The Queen and Fergus got along like a house on fire, but for Elissa to be summoned and then to have her brother asked for by the Queen directly... Elissa couldn’t put her finger on what it was exactly, but something wasn’t right.

Elissa swallowed, trying to gather her courage – telling herself over and over that she had nothing to worry about. Her panic was unfounded – a reaction to not wanting to see King Alistair and confront her feelings head on.

The footman was still waiting for Elissa now and feeling as if she were headed for the hangman’s noose, Elissa fell into step behind him. Elissa had become incredibly familiar with the palace in her time in Denerim. Their walk was too short, there was nothing informal about this meeting. With a frown, Elissa watched the footman enter the small receiving room to announce her. The snappy formal announcement set the tone for the meeting. Elissa swallowed her nerves before entering. 

King Alistair was sitting, waiting for Elissa. Fixing her gaze on a spot over the King’s right shoulder, Elissa sank into a wobbling curtesy, hidden only because of the long length of her dress. “Your majesty.” She greeted with much more confidence than she felt.

The King had stood when she entered and now gestured to a seat which Elissa hesitantly accepted. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Elissa.” Alistair told her. There was no indulgent smile this time or warm brown eyes crinkling with welcome. The words were polite, forced even.

Elissa knew that this was no social call.

Alistair gestured for Elissa to sit, all business. “Two days ago, Anora Mac Tir was convicted of acts of sedition against the Crown of Ferelden.” Startled by what Alistair said, Elissa sank not so gracefully into the closest chair. Of all the imagined scenarios, Elissa never would have pegged _Anora_ to be the reason why she had been summoned.

“Sedition is punishable by death in Ferelden. I appealed to the Chief Justice to consider her circumstances and recommended complete exile. I can do no more for her in these circumstances.”

Elissa blinked, still not fully understanding _why_ she was being told this.

“Why are you telling me this?” Elissa finally asked. Alistair sat back in his seat, considering his words, the stern expression hadn’t abated, a testament to how serious this situation is.

“I have been aware of the damage that Anora was attempting to inflict against the Crown. My actions were to protect Ferelden’s Throne and _you_.”

“Why protect me? I have nothing to do with this.” Elissa objected and Alistair held up a hand, stemming any more objections that Elissa wanted to make.

“Anora used you, used your…attraction – to damage me. I am fortunate to call the Couslands of Highever friends and allies. I am indebted to your family and seek to protect the Cousland name in appreciation of that friendship. Anora’s actions are inexcusable and she will receive her punishment.” Alistair paused and now all Elissa saw was regret.

“Your majesty, I –”

“– Elissa you too will have to leave. Anora’s actions will become public. I will not have you implemented any more than you already have.”

For half a moment, Elissa saw herself seated, staring dumbly at the King of Ferelden. This outward observation of herself, only served to anger her as the gravity of Anora’s manipulations settled around her completely. Anger at being prodded to pursue something that Elissa knew had been but an idyllic dream. Anger at the false hope that had been instilled in her.

“Is Highever not far away enough for you? I am content to stay there. Out of sight and out of mind.” Her angry words were dulled by threatening tears. 

“You will go to Amaranthine. The arling needs a skilled administrator. It will keep you busy and I know you will flourish there. I don’t recommend joining the Wardens though, they’re more trouble than their worth.” The joke was weak, but it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Elissa let out a hysterical laugh as tears trickled over her cheeks.

Not knowing what to do with herself, Elissa stood as suddenly as she had sat.

“Will I be able to visit Highever?” Alistair shook his head. “Not for awhile at least. This is temporary, but necessary Elissa. I’m sorry.”

Elissa had heard enough. A hurried curtsey had her striding to the door. There was no use staying here, imposing her welcome on someone that didn’t want to receive her. And in her anger, Elissa focused on the one person who had gotten in the way of what could have been within reach: The Queen of Ferelden. She would obey the King’s command. Elissa would return to Highever and pack her belongings and make her farewells. Then she would retreat to Amaranthine, doomed to be surrounded with the constant reminders of the man whose bloody motivations had set her on this path in the first place.

_This isn’t a punishment,_ Elissa told herself, yet it felt like one. Punished for being foolish enough to seek out a friendship.

Her hand reached out to push the door open. “Elissa.” She paused at the King calling her name.

“Given time, I could have returned your feelings.” Elissa glanced at the King over her shoulder.

“We will never know, will we?”

The door closed behind her before the King could answer.

*** * * * * * * * * ***

Marian had thought that after being married and coronated Queen of Ferelden, things would calm down. How wrong she was.

After her not so grand departure from Kirkwall, the city continued to seemingly improve with great strides. Whist this was likely hastened by her departure, Varric’s reports painted a positive situation, even if they were passive aggressive. Aveline had been right of course – when was the Guard-Captain _ever_ wrong? – Varric had been furious with a lack of consultation before Marian had decreed his new appointment in service to Kirkwall. Regardless of his written outrage, Marian knew that Varric saw the logic behind the appointment. His implicit trust in Marian was returned in her trust in Varric. Marian could be on the other side of the continent and Varric would know what she would want to do in a crisis that didn’t involve running into a skirmish with swords raised.

In Ferelden, Marian had somehow established a routine that didn’t involve bloodshed every second day. It was a startling realization.

For some reason, someone in the Ferelden army had deemed her useful to the training infantry out of Fort Drakon. What had started as simple participation to keep her own skills razor sharp whilst adjusting to the sedate schedule of Queen had become much more hands on. The King had approved – not that it had been hard to persuade Alistair at all. When she wasn’t drilling soldiers, Marian was in the study with Teagan learning the geographical nuances of Ferelden so she could contribute more to Ferelden’s governance as Queen.

Reports out of Kirkwall arrived weekly, delivered personally by trusted members of the Kirkwall militia. With the reports came letters from Merrill, idle dialogue that gave her a snapshot of Kirkwall. Marian was grateful for the picture that Merrill sketched out in her letters and despite her immense dislike for the city, there were days where Marian found she missed Kirkwall. Those nights where the ache was strongest, Marian tempered with a heady mix of lyrium and ale. Then, before she could think too much, she would creep into Alistair’s bed where they used one another until the heady urge to return was a fleeting memory. 

The arrangement suited them both. And Marian had found that she could live like this, until the rumours had started.

Hearing her name dragged through the mud and stomped upon wasn’t a new concept to Marian, in Kirkwall she had used it to her advantage; to push an image of fierce ruthlessness where it suited her. In Ferelden, Marian didn’t want to fall into the same old ways. In Ferelden, Marian was married to a King who fortunately enjoyed a relaxed camaraderie with his subjects. Here in Ferelden, Marian had decided that she would rise to curtail a perceived threat and confirm the stories that painted her as a fierce warrior. Whether she did it for herself or Alistair was a different story. 

Soldiers would always be soldiers, they gossiped more than older women. And while they would never be so bold as to speak openly in front of their Queen, Marian had still heard the little canards exchanged soldier to soldier during their training. 

Marian would have been content to let the gossips gossip, if besmirching her didn’t mean besmirching Alistair. 

The rumours infuriated her, made Marian hit her targets harder than usual – cracking wasters and sending hay from training dummies everywhere.

The rumours infuriated her, made her hit her targets harder than usual, cracking wasters and targets. It was the same song-and-dance wherever she went. No matter what Marian did, she couldn’t escape the backstabbing and lies. These new rumours were the salt on festering wounds. Still Marian had tried to give the talk little credence – her own cautious gesture of trust. But then Elissa Cousland had been dragged into it and Marian hadn’t been convinced that there wasn’t an element of truth to it all.

They were the salt on festering wounds. Still she gave such talk little credence, her own cautious gesture of trust. And then Elissa Cousland was dragged into it and Marian questioned her arguably sound judgement.

Marian had seen the fondness that Alistair fostered for Elissa, a fondness that Elissa had returned. Unbeknownst to Alistair, or so it seemed. The rumours had confirmed that they were much closer to the truth than Marian had originally thought. That realisation had brought with it the familiar sting of betrayal accompanied by the hard bite of mistrust. Marian was familiar with it – comfortable even – but this time it had hurt much more than she could have thought. Time and time again, Marian had been proved wrong by people, would she ever learn? 

The answer was always _never_.

And then Alistair – her _damned husband_ – had allowed her to carry on like a fool when her frustrations had peaked. Like a fool, she had blurted out her thoughts. Maker knew that the conversation they had, where Marian had excused Alistair should have been reversed. She’d stepped out of her own wedding celebration on a whim to be with Sebastian Vael.

No, if Alistair had wanted to pursue Elissa, Marian wouldn’t get in the way. On the contrary she would go out of her way to ensure they had the time they deserved with one another.

_Everyone deserved a little happiness in this shitty world_ , she’d reminded herself, ignoring the sharp twist of envy in her gut. No, she wasn’t jealous of Alistair pursuing Elissa. Marian harboured enough resentment; all of this was an outward projection of her own disappointment. That things would _never_ change. So damn them, damn them all.

Somehow Alistair had seen through her words and ignored how she’d kicked his arse needlessly. He had disarmed her with well-placed humour before explaining the ploy that had unfolded over the last year. 

_Damn him_.

But being a queen came with it some privileges that Marian hadn’t expected. After hearing Alistair’s story, Marian had found that she possessed something that she hadn’t had before: Marian knew who the culprit was. This time, Marian was in a position where she could do something about it without being backstabbed for her efforts.

Subterfuge was never her strong suit, but Kirkwall had taught Marian a harsh lesson in such games. With Alistair they played into the rumours together. Together, they orchestrated loud arguments that were designed to be overheard. Marian made a point to maintain a distance from Alistair only to make a great show of retiring with him at night. Alistair made it a game; he would irritably call her “wife” even as he patted her knee in reassurance. She would spit “husband” like a curse and tap a cheery beat on his thigh. Somehow, Alistair had made this fun when the situation was anything but. 

Cauthrien’s role had been trickier to explain away.

The capable knight had been sent with Marian to Kirkwall on Alistair’s instructions in order to separate her from Anora. Eamon had revealed that it was Cauthrien who had raised concerns for what Anora was up to. The knight had been torn, not wanting to violate a treasured friend’s trust, but in the end had spoken out of duty. Marian could appreciate the internal conflict. She’d said as much to Cauthrien before bluntly asking what she could do to ease the burden her decision.

Surprisingly, Cauthrien has asked to be assigned to her detail. Marian had done more than oblige, she had ensured that Cauthrien had enough work that she wouldn’t have to see Anora if the knight wished to continue avoiding the former Queen.

Anora bought into Alistair and Marian’s plan. Hook, line and sinker.

Next Marian knew, she was in a Ferelden court and she’d turned to Alistair muttering; _I left Kirkwall for this very reason_. She hated the courts. Judges were more trouble than they were worth, navigating their corrupt circles was an exhausting feat.

Anora was convicted of sedition and Alistair had to remind Marian that a smirking Queen was not an image that needed to be projected.

Now she was sitting with Fergus Cousland, a dear friend of Alistair’s, having just explained Elissa’s unwilling role in Anora’s schemes. Marian waited, allowing the Teryn a moment to process what he had just been told. Hating that it had come to all of this, hating the too familiar look of guilt that had manifested on Fergus’s face.

“ _Maker_ , she fought me tooth and nail when the King summoned her, and I pushed her…” Fergus uttered in disgusted disbelief. It was part of the unfortunate burden that landed on the shoulders of the elder sibling, the never-ending accountability of responsibility that could never be shaken.

Marian had been able to offer some semblance of comfort, as brief as it had been. “If Alistair summoned her, then the gossips cannot do any damage. You know this.” Fergus accepted the drink that Marian had poured for him when he had arrived.

Fergus surveyed her over the rim of his glass, topped high with whiskey. “Eamon wouldn’t have agreed to your solution so easily. What did you say that made him agree?”

Marian twiddled her fingers nonchalantly. “The man likes me, y’know?”

Fergus hedged a brief smile. “Sometimes, I find that hard to believe.” Marian snorted.

The conversation couldn’t go further before the topic of their conversation barged furiously into the room; eyes red with tears. Fergus spared one more glance at Marian before all but leaping out from his seat and pulling his sister into a tight hug. She slurped at her drink, looking away in effort to give brother and sister some privacy without leaving the room.

“I need to speak with the Queen, _alone_.” Elissa’s voice overrode Fergus’s quiet objections. Marian looked over to the Cousland siblings. Marian gave Fergus a nod and a quick salute with her beverage.

Taking the hint, Fergus left the room. Only when the Queen and Lady were alone, did Elissa speak. “The King explained everything. I will be leaving for Highever tomorrow and then, Amaranthine. I trust that will satisfy you to know that I am out of your way.”

Marian knew that Elissa’s words were misplaced, fuelled by grief and heartache. That Elissa’s anger was likely directed at Anora and that Marian was the scapegoat.

“You were never in my way.” Marian told Elissa with a disbelieving shake of her head.

Taking furious steps towards Marian, Elissa exclaimed: “You never liked me! You made that quite clear from the moment we were first introduced.” Marian shook her head guiltily. Another failure. 

This was a misunderstanding, one that Marian had unwittingly fostered and easily avoidable if she had been a little more forthcoming with the younger Cousland. One could see the haunting misery that gripped Elissa. The shock of betrayal from one that she had likely called a friend, the full scope of what she was about to face on her own in Amaranthine…the accusation was unspoken on Elissa’s lips, but Marian saw it in how her face screwed up in disbelief and anger. A mirror image of one that Bethany had worn so long ago.

“I have – had – a younger brother and sister. They were twins. Carver was the eldest by two and a half minutes; he was always impatient. Bethany wasn’t nearly so. She was a mage like our father.” Marian spoke to her hands, not wanting to look at Elissa. Not hearing any objections, Marian took this as a sign to continue.

“Our mother blamed me when Carver died, struck down by an ogre on our way to Ferelden. Fast forward to Kirkwall, I was going into the Deep Roads and we had a pretty good idea of what were going to find down there. Our father had always said that Bethany was ‘exceptional with manipulating the cold.’ Someone like Bethany in the Deep Roads was incredibly useful. Mother begged and pleaded with me to order my sister to stay in Kirkwall, she would listen. Bethany convinced me otherwise, that was my first mistake.” Marian chanced a look at Elissa. She had taken Fergus’s vacated seat, listening with rapt attention. _Elissa isn’t another Bethany_ , she told herself, _Elissa will listen_.

Marian continued: “A lot of shit happened down there and in the crossfire with darkspawn, she contracted the blight sickness. Luckily – or unluckily – we stumbled on the Grey Wardens. They were chasing darkspawn and we were fleeing, trying to get topside before Bethany died. The Grey Wardens couldn’t heal her, but they could save her by making her a Warden. The choice was taken from her, she would be a Grey Warden, but she would be alive. My second mistake.” A shuddering breath escaped Marian. This was the first time she had spoken about Bethany in the longest time and it was still raw to dwell on. Strange, that it was Elissa Cousland that would hear this story arc of suffering that had befallen Marian Hawke.

“The next time I saw Bethany, the Qunari were attacking Kirkwall. She yelled, furious that I had taken her choice of life away from her. She blamed me for everything, the choices I had made to achieve the best for our family in impossible moments. Bethany blamed me and cursed me for it. And I believed her, because why wouldn’t I? She was – is my little sister who can knock me on my arse.” A soft hand covered Marian’s and the tremble in Marian’s hands halted at the unexpected comfort. Her throat was thick with emotions, suppressed for so long now.

“You reminded me of Bethany. I saw my baby-sister who deserved the world and was dealt a shitty hand. I’m not a good person Elissa. I saw how close you are with your brother and your friendship with Alistair. They – you – showed me kindness’s that I haven’t been shown in a long time. So I owed it to you stay away, in case I fucked this up for you too.”

The words stuttered out with difficulty, but Marian had almost made her point. She hoped that baring herself like this, ripping off the layers to expose this hurt would help Elissa make the best of what she had been dealt. With the hand not encased by Elissa’s, she grabbed her glass and downed the remaining drink. Liquid courage as ever.

“I argued that Amaranthine was far enough away from Denerim that people would eventually forget, but close enough to Highever that you will not be a stranger to your friends and Fergus.” It had taken more convincing than Marian had thought to have Eamon agree that Amaranthine was the best place to send Elissa. _Why should Elissa be punished for Anora’s crimes?_ She had vehemently argued. The Grey Wardens would benefit from Elissa’s skill. Under Elissa’s careful eye, Marian was certain that the arling would flourish.

Elissa swiped at wayward tears. “Thank you for telling me this.” She finally said. Elissa’s hand squeezed Marian’s.

Standing, the Queen of Ferelden took in Elissa’s tear-streaked cheeks. “I’m sorry that I got in the way of your happiness.” Marian finished quietly. Before Elissa could say anymore, Marian strode from the room.


	16. Part III: Chapter Fifteen: Foreshadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.

**Foreshadow(s):**...a warning or indication of (a future event). 

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

Alistair stared at the pile of correspondence on his desk, trying to muster the willpower to slit open envelopes and read the contents within. The King of Ferelden was tired, needing a break from the politicking and governing. _No rest for the wicked_. A king couldn’t just up and disappear, but he could sneak out for the night with his queen. Even so, _t_ _he King of Ferelden couldn’t just up and go on holidays_ , Alistair reminded himself.

The past weeks had taken its toll. There were few and far occasions where a King would be required to attend a Ferelden court, yet Alistair had found himself in the courtroom, watching a lawyer arguing the Crown’s case. That was bearable. What was unbearable was sending Elissa away to Amaranthine. Elissa had left Denerim the day after Alistair had been wed to Marian, when it was socially acceptable. She had made her excuses for not attending Marian’s coronation, citing teryn matters. It had been long enough that sitting there, watching her face crumble in despair had made his heart ache more than Alistair would ever care to admit. 

What Alistair hadn’t expected was Marian Hawke’s strong advocation for Elissa to remain in Ferelden. 

Alistair had come to think his wife hadn’t liked Elissa. At first, Alistair had thought Elissa’s impressions was wrong, it was hard not to enjoy Elissa’s conversation or presence. It was pleasant to have Elissa around. Marian would surely see what Alistair saw in the Highever woman. Instead, Alistair noticed Marian would make her excuses to leave or distance herself from the conversation whenever Elissa was present. It had been difficult, torn between acquainting himself with Marian whilst juggling the delicate position of being King and friend to the Cousland family.

It was heartening that Marian argued for Elissa to stay in Ferelden even as Eamon pushed for Elissa to Ferelden for the Free Marches.

_If Elissa’s role in all of this is revealed, it’s not just her reputation that will suffer._ Eamon had pointed out.

Marian had smacked her hand on the desk indignantly. _I didn’t realize that we were hanging the beggar who accepted stolen coin_.

For every reason Eamon presented in favour of sending Elissa away, Marian had scathing rebuttal to answer him with. Alistair agreed with Eamon but saw Marian’s logic: Elissa couldn’t stay in Highever, but there was no need to send her away from Ferelden. Presenting his opinion had only switched the target of Marian’s ire from Eamon to himself.

Teagan broke the stalemate, suggesting Amaranthine.

The administrative affairs of the Grey Warden run arling had been managed by Seneschal Varel since Alistair had awarded the arling to them. For the older seneschal, the workload was becoming to taxing. Warden-Commander Leonie had inquired to the Crown in finding a suitable candidate to assist the seneschal. Any letter from the Warden-Commander was always an entertaining read, for the Warden-Commander was illiterate and all correspondence was dictated. Alistair assumed that a suitable aid for Varel was found immediately. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

Eamon’s objection was weaker, with Marian arguing that there would be no individual more suited than Elissa. Her efforts in Highever spoke for themselves. Eamon had started drafting the letter to Amaranthine detailing Elissa’s transfer as Marian breathed down his neck. 

Then Marian stepped in once again as Alistair worried over both Fergus and Elissa. 

She had talked to Fergus whilst Alistair addressed the unspoken business between him and Elissa. When Alistair had approached Fergus, his mentor had clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him for keeping Elissa safe and close to home. Fergus’s message was unspoken: a cherished friendship wasn’t lost due to Anora’s machinations. 

Alistair rubbed his eyes before picking up a pen and sifted through the sealed letters cautiously. With each letter that was dismissed as unimportant, Alistair decided that with no pressing business he would take the rest of the day for his own. Alistair paused on an envelope, recognising the familiar cursive that outlined his name. With a fond smile, Alistair opened the letter from Wynne.

Wynne and Alistair had stayed in touch after the blight had taken them all in different directions. During the Blight, Alistair had formed a close friendship with the older mage. A friendship that was still strong despite the different paths they walked. In the first years of Alistair’s reign, he had bombarded Wynne with constant letters, a way to express the frustrations of ascending a throne unprepared, rather than seeking counsel. Wynne had responded with soothing reassurances coupled with advice that Alistair hadn’t know he desperately needed.

Wynne had become the motherly figure that Alistair had always wanted in his life. A relationship that he cherished greatly.

The last letter from Wynne had come from Val Royeaux, and with his pending marriage to Marian, Alistair had sent Wynne’s invitation to the Orlesian capital. To Alistair’s disappointment there had been no response. Wynne had left Ferelden over a year ago, but somehow his letters always fell into her hands. Alistair had sent another letter describing his reluctant wedding day and had finally received a response. Calming words of encouragement and advice, mingled with disappointment that such an important life event had been missed.

Another letter so soon was refreshing and welcome. Somehow, Wynne had always picked up on what Alistair wasn’t saying. But her accompanying news out of Val Royeaux wasn’t nearly as encouraging and for better or worse, it concerned Marian.

Discontent over the Empress’s reign was brewing and with the bubbling tensions within the Chantry, the Divine was struggling to maintain peace. For Ferelden, it meant a reprieve from the continued Orlesian onslaught on Ferelden’s borders. The tension between state and Chantry was felt more in Orlais than it would be felt in Ferelden. Alistair’s efforts combined with his humble origins had paved a path to a cordial relationship between Crown and the Ferelden Order. This collaboration had seen the quick restoration of the Ferelden Circle after the Blight, with workable reforms that improved conditions for mages – both in and out of the Circle. 

These reforms had led to a disagreement with Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard. Ferelden only had a duty of care to apostates and would not intervene with the Order. Public scrutiny aside, these were necessary protections that benefited the magical and non-magical populace. It was no surprise when Alistair’s critics labelled him a progressive ruler who jeopardised Ferelden’s safety. A more outrageous claim suggest that Alistair acted to benefit the Grey Wardens only.

Ignoring the more ludicrous claims, Alistair responded with vigour that had put that tricky conversation to bed: D _o you propose that we hand over apostates to the Templar Order like chattel? The Circle of Magi exists to protect mages. We should not be so naïve to think there aren’t apostates that live peacefully amongst us. Plunging our country into paranoia and uncertainty for a small number will set Ferelden on a pathway that we cannot turn back from._

Ferelden would fare better through the burgeoning mage-templar conflict that had swept across the Free Marches and into Orlais because of it. But with Marian’s position as Viscountess and her own implicated role, there was cause for concern on what _could_ happen if the conflict were to permeate Ferelden. Anora had tried this very tactic in undermining the Ferelden Crown before she had been stopped. The former Queen had been much closer to the truth than she had probably realized. 

Concerning news indeed. The apostate Ander’s call for mage freedoms and rights had permeated the heart of Orlais, to the White Spire itself.

_No rest for the wicked_. 

Cursing, Alistair hurried from his office, letter in hand. Marian could be anywhere in the palace, but as Alistair always reminded her: the servants knew all. And the servants pointed him to the sunroom to find Marian seated cross-legged on the carpeted floor tending to her armour, the sun’s rays streaming through opened windows.

Each piece of leather had been cleaned and treated with oil, and chainmail carefully wiped over. Marian was sewing what looked like new pieces of leather to the interior lining of the rerebrace when Alistair approached her. There was a frown on her face. Careful not to upset the armour pieces scattered about, Alistair sat down beside Marian and set Wynne’s letter in her line of vision. Without a word, Marian handed a cloth and a tin of wax to Alistair along with a gauntlet to polish. Picking up the letter, Marian began to read.

Alistair watched Marian as he ran the cloth over the gauntlet. Lately, it had seemed like she was mourning something – _someone_? She spoke little and was keeping to herself. Alistair didn’t push her like he would have on other issues.

Whatever had happened, this one was intimately personal to Marian. If she shared her pain, it would be because Marian wanted to share her burden with Alistair.

Alistair left Marian to her silence but saw how Marian slid into his bed late at night seeking comfort, allowing him to throw the covers over them both. Alistair would mould his body against hers, holding Marian tightly as she trembled in his arms. She was always cold to touch, too cold. It was mildly concerning on Marian’s better days. But Alistair had noticed that the cuts on her arms had healed over. Something was better than nothing.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever praised me like this before.” Hawke teased. Seeing that Marian was reading the first page of Wynne’s letter, Alistair yanked the page out of her grasp, embarrassed.

Ears burning, Alistair pointed at the second page. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” An oily fingerprint was left behind. “Start from here.”

“Sure, but only after you explain what ‘fade babies’ have anything to do with marrying me.”

“Absolutely nothing.” Alistair spoke too quickly. Marian’s frown turned into a smirk.

Perusing the letter, Marian added. “Don’t tell me you believe that Chantry nonsense of how babies are born?” Alistair gently whacked Marian’s thigh with her own gauntlet, eliciting a chuckle.

“Who’s Wynne? You’ve never mentioned her.” Marian asked turning her attention back to the second half of the letter. A sad realisation on Alistair’s part. One that could be rectified now at least.

“Wynne mended the holes in my shirt during the Blight. She’s also is the First-Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle.” Marian raised a brow as she eyed Alistair before nodding encouragingly.

“And how’d a templar manage to get a mage to mend the holes in his shirt?” Marian prompted curiously.

Alistair buffed wax into metal as he considered his answer. “My dashing good looks and sweet-talking abilities.”

Marian chuckled, nudging Alistair with her elbow. “Just because you look good in armour doesn’t discount the fact that you’re a templar.”

Alistair nudged Marian back. “You think I look good in armour?”

Marian made a show of returning to reading the letter. Which was starting to look decidedly crumpled. Alistair nudged Marian again.

“Doesn’t matter what I think, you’re still a templar and a mage was still mending your shirts.” She finally answered, a roguish glint in her eye.

“I never became a templar, you know.”

“You still fight like one. That’s close enough.” Alistair scoffed and Marian patted him on the knee, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Anyone can look handsome in armour, husband.”

Alistair shook his head, looking outside rather than letting Marian see the satisfied smirk at the backwards compliment. He didn’t tease Marian further, confirmation that Marian Hawke found him _attractive_ – handsome even, was enough to ammunition for a later debate. Instead Alistair returned to buffing the gauntlet to an even shine, stopping when Marian folded the letter and set it down beside her.

“If I could kill Anders again, I would.” Marian told Alistair. There was no need to question her on her thoughts regarding Orlais further, that one sentence said it all.

Alistair placed the gauntlet aside. “Kirkwall should be informed.” It was advice, from one ruler to another. There was no need to explain his reasoning, if Marian wanted to know his thoughts she would ask. She always did though. 

Marian shook her head. “There’s nothing Kirkwall can do about this. Though…” She trailed off, suddenly lost in thought. As if she changed her mind, Marian leapt to her feet. Crossing to the table, Marian began to scribble something on a piece of parchment. Alistair watched as she stuffed the paper messily into an envelope and dashed through the door.

What Alistair didn’t expect was when Marian reappeared, bending down to quickly peck him on the lips. “I’ll be back.”

Bemused, Alistair watched the Queen of Ferelden dash from the sunroom, leaving the King of Ferelden with his Queen’s dirty armour.

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

Shit was beginning to fly outside of Marian’s control. The only advantage Marian had was she was well-placed to act before it impacted too many people.

Kirkwall was the epicentre of this conflict, the effects rippling outwards with a magnitude that even Varric couldn’t have predicted. How Kirkwall responded when this news from Val Royeaux became public knowledge would be crucial. It was fortunate that Marian had an ally in Cullen, it benefitted them both to work together.

The news of Templar violence towards the College of Enchanters was a recipe for matters to dissolve into outright violence. Marian’s immediate concern was the red-lyrium that still festered and thrived within the Gallows. Templar discontent towards the Chantry threatened the containment strategies that she and Cullen had devised. Cullen would have informed his superiors of the red-lyrium that still spread like a disease. If the Kirkwall Templars dissented from the Chantry, all it would take was one ambitious templar to try and fulfil Meredith’s grand idea of weaponizing the volatile mineral. Or heck, infecting the people of Kirkwall itself.

It was concerning on how easy Marian found it to think like a crazed lunatic.

Chewing on her pen, Marian considered what could result from all of these events. Exploring all possible avenues had become a constant topic of conversation between her and Alistair, fuelled by the knowledge that Kirkwall was the catalyst that propelled these events into motion. Marian left out the insignificant detail of the role red lyrium could play in these events.

Marian planned on taking the knowledge of red lyrium and its existent in the Gallows, including the location of the thaig where it had come from a secret that would follow her into the grave. There were only a select privy to that knowledge. The fewer people knew, the better off they would all be. 

Finally, Marian put pen to paper. Using an abstract code that Varric had created, Marian described the condition of the Gallows, suggesting that he visit promptly and her concerns with the news hailing from Val Royeaux. About the red lyrium, Marian was purposely vague: Cullen would be able to explain what gaps Marian couldn’t provide.

_Something wasn’t right._

Sealing the letter, Marian considered returning to Kirkwall in order to prepare the city for more conflict. Varric was more capable of formulate better strategies to handle tensions. Heck, it was Varric who tempered Marian’s responses to keep the illusion of peace. Varric would be able to make more headway if Marian was out of the way, Kirkwall nobles were prickly like that. Some nobles still saw the Viscountess as a person that was in the way, but now she was Ferelden’s problem.

_Varric will look after this. He’ll tell me if he needs me in Kirkwall_ , Marian tried to reassure herself. A simple letter to Varric wasn’t enough, it felt like she was fulfilling her obligation out of duty. Marian reconsidered jumping on the first available ship back to Kirkwall, better to return without cause than when it was too late.

Marian stared at the envelope in her hands. She’d left Alistair cleaning her armour, but it occurred to her that the decision on _when_ she returned to Kirkwall could be discussed with her husband. Alistair’s advice was always sound and wasn’t that how marriage worked? Marian had no clue.

Before she could overthink this anymore than she already had, Marian returned to the sunroom, finding her _husband_ obediently cleaning her armour. She stood watching, trying to ignore the overwhelming fondness at the sight of Alistair waiting for her.

Marian cleared her throat. “I didn’t peg you as an _obedient_ templar,” Marian teased. Sitting herself back in her spot beside Alistair, he handed her a clean gauntlet, showing her the one that he was currently working on. It was impressive. Marian would have to find a way to get Alistair to clean her armour more often, he did a better job than she ever had.

“At least the templar knows how to clean his armour.” He snarked good-naturedly.

A light banter sprung up, until Marian cleared her throat.

“So, about Kirkwall…” Marian began and began to explain her predicament.

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

Marian shifted in her seat, wondering why Alistair had insisted she join this meeting.

The Coalition of the Arls was a quarterly meeting, separate to the Landsmeet. Here, the Arls of Ferelden met to discuss issues and concerns that weren’t answered at the Landsmeet. Over tea, Alistair and Eamon had explained that the opus of Ferelden politics began at the Coalition of the Arls, but it was at the grand stage of the Landsmeet where such political drama was presented and unfolded. The coalition handled the drafting of legislation and the Landsmeet, where King and Queen were able to curry favour and gauge the realpolitik workings of the Bannorn. 

For the most part, the coalition was Marian’s opportunity to better acquaint herself with some-what familiar faces. Leonas Bryland had greeted his new Queen enthusiastically and with Teagan attending as Redcliffe’s representative, it made it a slightly easier for Marian to suffer. Sitting down and talking legislation with stuffy nobles was not Marian’s idea of a good time.

The Arls of Denerim and Edgehall were another story altogether.

Marian decided that Vaughan Kendells, Arl of Denerim couldn’t be trusted as far as she could spit. Alistair had only confirmed her hunch, describing how the Arl had been involved with the scandal surrounding the elven uprising during the Blight. His name had been cleared due to circumstantial evidence, but Kendells vote of support for the Grey Wardens had been conditional to his release. Kendells was a perpetual thorn in Alistair’s side. 

_Rendon Howe was scum of the lowest order,_ Alistair had added _, but there was a reason he’d imprisoned Kendells after the death of his father_ _, only no one knows why_.

But where Kendells remained on a technicality, Gell Lendon was even more complicated.

Lendon had tangled with Orlesians and according to Eamon, only retained power and influence because of the Arling itself. Lendon was nothing more than a puppet of the nobility, which wasn’t reassuring at all. Who knew when such a puppet as Gell Lendon would rebel against his masters, weakening Ferelden in the process?

Marian had yet to meet the Arl of Amaranthine, Warden-Commander Leonie Caron.

The Warden-Commander arrived with Teagan, dressed smartly for the occasion. Her short, dark hair was streaked through with silver and frizzed around her head like a halo. Even with the Grey Warden uniform, Caron was very different to the other Arls in the room. Marian was given a snappy salute when Teagan made introductions, and the Warden-Commander lunched into a long-winded apology. Concealing her amusement, Marian was more than happy to reassure the Warden-Commander that her absence hadn’t caused any offence.

Alistair was in deep conversation with Eamon and the Arl of West Hills. The Blight had afflicted the arling severely, with the Arl losing his sons to blight sickness. Even so, the arling, with the connections of the Avvar in the Frostback mountains had slowly recovered over the years. When Teagan excused himself, Warden-Commander Leonie leaned forward.

“Good thing you’re here, Your Majesty. These meetings are…cumbersome. Some Arl’s need a good kick up the arse.” Marian hid her amusement with a pointed sip of wine. 

Soon though, Marian understood Leonie’s cryptic comments. Alistair called the coalition to order and Eamon established the agenda. The agenda only seemed to confirm that each Arl was motivated only by what benefitted themselves. 

Marian sat in her seat, still trying to figure out if her presence was required. She was Queen of Ferelden, but in reality, she was a stranger. Alistair had been navigating the precarious waters of noble favour on his own for years now. Still, she had made herself useful, speaking up to help find compromise on issues pertaining to allocation of resources amongst the Arlings. Alistair had sent her looks of gratitude, which she had returned with a smirk and a pointed wink.

_At least one man valued her presence here._

Then the discussion had turned to the topic of Ferelden’s new Queen and suddenly Marian understood why Alistair wanted her there. Marian was happy to let Alistair fight most battles for her, but even Marian recognised the opportunity to speak up for herself. And Marian appreciated the sentiment more than Alistair could truly know.

Kendells had been the one that had brought up the ‘apparent’ conflict of interest between Kirkwall and Ferelden. _How could the Bannorn be so sure that the Queen wasn’t acting to benefit her city over Ferelden’s interests?_

Judging from the exasperated glance that Alistair traded with Teagan, this wasn’t the first time that Kendells had questioned the Crown so impertinently. Kirkwall had taught Marian how to navigate such questions, urging to placate rather than confront. Marian ignored those lessons and opted for practical logic and savage truths as her weapon.

First, Marian invited Kendells to travel to Kirkwall to speak with Varric and members of the Kirkwall legislative council personally. Kendells was as slippery as they came, she didn’t have to wait long to hear Kendells excuses. His ungracious decline had Leonie snorting into her own cup. That wasn’t enough to make the Arl backdown, however. Kendells, together with Lendon continued their attack on Marian by finding inconsistencies and inadequacies with Marian’s answers.

_Alistair’s hand on her knee stopped Marian from running them through with her sword._

Occasionally, Arl Wulf interjected with questions of his own. These, Marian was more than happy to answer. Still the relentless interrogation continued on, brought to a head when Lendon inquired _why_ Marian was yet to be expecting a child. The pressing issue of securing an heir for Ferelden.

_Alistair’s hand found hers and squeezed it._

“You do know how these things work, Kendells? The King and Queen don’t simply look at one another and baby pops out of thin air.” Leonie commented dryly. Marian decided she liked the Warden-Commander.

“I wish to make it aware to the Coalition that there has been no significant effort made by the King and Queen to fulfil their royal duty to the people of Ferelden.” Kendells responded hotly.

Marian’s palms itched to slug the man in the face for his insults.

“You’ve made your point clear not only to the Queen of Ferelden, but the Coalition as well.” Wulff drawled from his seat beside Eamon.

Kendells wasn’t willing to back down on this point. “The King has made it perfectly clear from the onset of his reign that he would not consider another for queenship as his original choice was deemed unsuitable –”

“– I also recall, messere that you were one of the dissidents in the elevation of the Hero of Ferelden to queenship.” Wulff interjected. Bryland and Teagan made affirmative noises in agreement.

Lendon picked up where Kendells was interrupted. “A mage as queen is outrageous!” He objected and Marian now understood this point of attack.

It was a low blow to her, a not-so-subtle dig that Marian was only Queen because the King had been forced to accept a queen, accept _her_. Alistair had his own reasons for refusing to take a wife, which Marian respected; whatever they were. He had been much more forthcoming with her than she with him. But to have such things paraded before them both in public was too much to bear.

Lendon wouldn’t back down. “As my colleague rightly points out, time enough has passed that our Queen could feasibly be with child. Why isn’t the King trying to ensure his duty to Ferelden by producing an heir is fulfilled? Is it a subtle protest because the Hero of Ferelden wasn’t allowed to take to the throne beside him?”

There was a roaring in Marian’s ears. Anger chorused through her, along with another reminder that Ferelden and Kirkwall was much the same. Whatever Marian did wasn’t good enough. She _wasn’t good enough_.

Marian could see Alistair’s own anger reflected in his stiff posture, a hand resting on his waist where she knew his sword was belted. Marian had drawn her sword for lesser insults, an impulse that was hard to resist acting on in that moment. Instead she stood, leaning forwards towards Kendell. Intimidation and shock would be the swords she yielded.

“Next time the King fucks me, I’ll make sure that you are immediately notified.”

Drawing herself up to her full height, she eyed each Arl in turn. Leonie was the only one who gave her slightest nod in encouragement. The Warden-Commander likely understood such unfair scrutiny, in this fight she had another ally at last.

“Will a post _fuck_ notice suffice?” She clarified to the room. Not receiving an answer, Marian stormed from the room, not even bothering to excuse herself, blinking back tears of humiliation and rage.


	17. Part III: Chapter Sixteen: Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, there are adult themes in this chapter. 
> 
> The second half of this chapter is largely the by product of discussions, and then role play with [AllieVadner](https://www.twitch.tv/AllieVadner). She wrote the other side of Marian's heated conversation, of which some of the dialogue was appropriated and features in this chapter, as well as other content in upcoming chapters. She also puts up with all my ramblings.

**Reunions:** an instance of two or more people coming together again after a period of separation.

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

Hawke – _no, Marian –_ hadn’t said a word after the disastrous meeting with the Coalition. Alistair couldn’t blame Marian for her furious exit either. The Coalition had not only implied that Marian couldn’t be trusted but had made a point to mention _her._ Alistair had been all to happy to excuse himself after the Queen, barely containing his own rage.

Alistair had wanted to speak to Marian directly and find a way forward with the troublesome Arls, but Marian had sequestered herself into her quarters and refused to answer the door. Unsure what else to do but leave the door linking their quarters open in silent invitation, Alistair too settled for the night, seeking much needed solitude of his own. Standing in the sitting room, Alistair found himself temporarily lost. He’d grown accustomed to nights shared with Marian: a shared whiskey over a game of dice or checkers before bed.

Alistair called for a platter of cheese and picked up his unfinished book.

Sitting by the fireside with his book in hand, Alistair crunched on crispy bread spread with goats’ cheese when there was a cautious knock on the door. It was Hawke – _Marian –_ standing in her shift and unlaced boots looking unsure of herself. The arm that was crossed across her front tightly gripped a bottle of something and she held two glasses in her other hand.

“Can I come in?” She asked guardedly. Alistair gestured to the second seat that was reserved now for Marian alone. Only when Hawke had sat down, did Alistair set aside his book, carefully marking the page for later.

“Today was really shit.” Marian said as she poured them both a generous glass of whiskey. Alistair cut portions of cheddar cheese, pairing it on bread spread with fig compote. Alistair pushed the plate forward receiving whiskey in return. Sipping his drink, Hawke immediately began to eat. Alistair wasn’t surprised, Hawke hadn’t shown for dinner that evening.

“It wasn’t exactly a basket of roses.” Alistair answered dryly.

“Want to tell me why the Hero of Ferelden was brought up?”

Alistair swallowed quickly, eyes watering as the alcohol burned his throat. It had been only a matter of time until _she_ was brought into the conversation. Alistair had dodged this particular conversation for as long as he’d remained unmarried. The Coalition meeting with the new queen was inevitable, but it had given the Arls ammunition; it allowed them to delve into places that were still raw to think about. It was cruel that Kendells had used _her_ in his attempt to damage Marian. 

“When I was crowned King, I wanted to rule with her…the Warden. But a mage cannot hold noble titles, let alone a throne. If I couldn’t rule with her, then I would rule alone.” Alistair finally answered. Truthful and to the point. Marian considered Alistair as she finished chewing on her bread and took a long sip of her drink. Needing to busy himself, Alistair took it upon himself to serve Marian more bread and cheese.

He watched as Marian placed her glass on the table, brows raised. “And they used _me_ to throw that fact in your face again? What the fuck is their problem?” There was a rush of relief at Marian’s question. But even with Marian’s seeming acceptance of Alistair’s reasons for not taking a queen, Alistair still didn’t know what to say. Everything that happened after the Blight was still too raw, would always be too raw.

Marian opened her mouth and then paused. Finally, she said: “Those nobles really know how to make our lives difficult.” Another pause, this time Marian looked as if she had a bitter taste in her mouth. “I would have made your position difficult in there. There are better ways to put people in their place than how I did.”

The last thing Alistair had expected was an apology, which was baseless and unneeded. Alistair shook his head. “It was nothing. Kendells deserved more for that insult.”

“Like a blade to the face?” Alistair snorted at Marian’s light-hearted joke.

An easy silence fell between them, broken only by the sounds of Marian eating and the splash of whiskey being topped up. Content for the moment, Alistair returned to his book when Marian took herself to bed, drink in tow. Even with this resumption of normalcy, Alistair couldn’t concentrate on his reading. Resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn’t finish his book in this lifetime, Alistair went to join Marian in bed. She was slouched against the pillows, eyelids dropping and cradling her glass to her chest.

Climbing into bed, Alistair leaned over and tried to take the glass out of Marian’s hand. Hawke’s eyes snapped open with a sleepy, objective noise. “You were asleep.” Alistair told her pointedly.

Hawke shook her head. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Give me my drink back.” Alistair shook his head.

“I’ve killed for less you know.” Marian threatened sleepily. Alistair tried to ignore how endearing he found the notion. “If you had, we wouldn’t be here right now.” He pointed out instead.

Hawke looked momentarily put out. “Finish you’re drink, Hawke.” Alistair told her.

Hawke downed it in two gulps, letting out a satisfied sigh. Handing her empty glass to Alistair, she buried herself under the covers. Alistair leaned over Marian to put the glass on the bedside table before following after her.

Hawke sighed. “What was her name?”

Alistair stared up at the canopy over the bed, before closing his eyes. “Solona, she hated the name. Asked everyone to use her last name; Amell.” Hawke shifted, curling up into a ball on her side, puffs of breath warm on Alistair’s shoulder.

“Amell was my mother’s maiden name you know. She’s probably a cousin.” Hawke commented drowsily. Alistair’s eyes snapped open.

 _How often had he told Hawke that she reminded him of someone, but couldn’t place just_ who _it was?_

Turning to face Marian, Alistair examined Marian Hawke’s silhouette in the dim lighting. Alistair saw Marian Hawke with renewed clarity. Both Hawke and Amell shared the same stubbornness and a directness that was construed as rudeness. Clearly, a family trait. Alistair’s memory of Amell was beginning to fuzz around the edges, but he was certain that the familial connection would be evident, should they ever meet in the future.

“One of mother’s worst nightmares was having Bethany taken away to the Circle. She told me once about a cousin’s children being taken away. How the grief killed her. I wish I could tell her that one of her children survived.” Marian let out a shuddering breath. It was then that Alistair noticed blue eyes fixed upon him, watching and waiting for a reaction. Marian was no longer half asleep but watched him with a wariness which Alistair hadn’t seen since her arrival in Ferelden.

Solona Amell had had captured Alistair’s heart, helping him to become the man that he was. She was a creature of beauty and light in the dark shroud of the blight. She was the Queen that he had imagined when the conversation of him claiming his birthright had first been brought up. Their parting had been mutual, if unwilling on his part, a bittersweet moment that ached with memories of _her_. Solona Amell had been Alistair’s first love, one that he had been unable to let go of for so long. But now, Alistair realized that the heartache didn’t plague him as it once had. That a feeling of contentment had replaced the wanting ache to have Amell back in his arms.

Marian Hawke had come barging into his life and changed it for the better. 

“You love her.” It was a simple statement, but the misery suggested that Hawke understood Alistair’s long turmoil over the years.

“I _loved_ her.” Alistair admitted, his hand finding Marian’s and gripping her fingers tightly. He didn’t expect the reassuring squeeze.

“The Prince of Starkhaven asked for my hand in marriage when I was in Kirkwall. I said no.” There it was, the confirmation of what Alistair had suspected after seeing the Starkhaven Prince and Marian together at their wedding. There had always been that allusion that Kirkwall and Starkhaven’s alliance was built upon more that just politics, but Marian had said nothing, and Alistair saw no need to bring the subject up. Her frowns at the wedding, combined with her wariness, combined with this knowledge was the final pieces in the puzzle that was the Prince of Starkhaven.

This time, it was Alistair who squeezed Marian’s hand in reassurance.

“Sebastian needed a wife who will support him, run the palace and host diplomats. He needs someone who is happy to sit in a parlour and pursue the latest fashions. Kirkwall and Starkhaven alliance is a physical show of our friendship. It could never be anything more than that.” There was an air of wistfulness tinged with regret. There was always something missing when Marian Hawke spoke personally; an abstract detail that would give insight to her innermost thoughts. This time Alistair could paint a clear picture and it was through shared turmoil.

“Sebastian accepted everything that was me but loved an idea of me that couldn’t exist.” Marian finished; voice thick with emotion. Hawke was gripping Alistair’s hand like it was a lifeline. 

“You love him.” Alistair said, lifting their entwined hands so he could wipe at unshed tears. Bad luck and circumstance that had brought them together. But for all of Alistair’s wishful thinking, Marian was showing herself to be the Queen that he wanted, that he _needed_. A woman that could hold her own but would have his back in a fight – be it verbal or physical. A woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind or do what she thought was right. A woman who challenged him but was lenient enough to let him be vulnerable.

Marian shook her head. “I _loved_ him.”

These were all the things that Marian Hawke was: an ally, a trusted friend. But there was always more, every time she showed a deeper layer of herself, Alistair couldn’t help wanting more.

He shifted closer, leaning into Marian. Their lips brushed and he whispered: “I’m glad it’s you.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

A wandering hand woke Marian the next morning. Calloused fingers brushed over her breasts and down her side, fingernails scraping over old scars as the hand drifted across her belly.

With a sleepy sigh, Marian stretched as eyes fluttered open, meeting Alistair’s gaze, his eyes intense in the morning light. The hand settled on her hip as they stared at one another. This marriage, _this relationship_ with Alistair was changing. Marian stared at her husband and found herself aching for his touch. Marian reached for his hand, placing it back on her stomach and guided it lower. Alistair pulled her closer, their lips meeting as his finger quested lower and lower.

Marian’s moan echoed through the bedroom.

Alistair manoeuvred Marian onto her back, teeth grazing over Marian’s collarbone. With a careful roll of her hips, Alistair’s fingers slid home inside of her.

A loud, sharp knock on the door sounded over the heady sounds of Marian’s moans. She ignored it, concentrating on Alistair’s fingers, which twisted in such a way that made her bite her lip to contain herself. 

Another, more urgent knock followed by the rattling doorknob and Alistair stilled. Marian opened her eyes, not knowing when she had closed them. “I swear to the Maker and Andraste that if you don’t keep going, I will end you.” She threatened.

Alistair chuckled, kissing the base of her neck. The doorknob rattled with more urgent knocking. Marian swore, Alistair groaned into her breast.

“Kingly duty calls.” He bemoaned, kissing her breast. As far as Marian was concerned, kingly duties could wait. Sliding out from underneath Alistair, Marian reluctantly left the bed she shared with Alistair, making for the door.

Marian planned to tell whoever was at the door to piss off. Business would wait until the King had successfully gotten the Queen off. If that didn’t work, then the back up plan was to scare them away with the fact that the Queen of Ferelden was as naked as the day she was born.

Wrenching the doors open, the words were on her lips, but instead Marian stared at the intruder. Frizzy brown-black hair and the smell of the sea. Marian crossed her arms, looking Isabela Rivaini: pirate-captain up and down. “I wondered how long it would take for you to show up.”

“Hawke?” Isabela stammered, astonished. Behind Isabela Zevran leant against the wall, amused. 

“How in Andraste’s name did you get inside Zevran?” Alistair snapped from behind Marian. A glance back revealed Alistair had gathered the sheets around him for modesty, his cheeks red. Marian found the sight of Alistair standing there like that rather fetching. Too bad that their morning was disrupted by their disruptive guests.

Zevran winked at Marian as he showed himself inside the bedroom, pointedly inspecting the wall hangings. Marian noted to have the guard search their unexpected guests before they departed. Knowing Zevran, the assassin would probably enjoy it. But that was a problem for later, right now there was a more immediate one: Isabela Rivaini. 

Two years ago, Isabela had jumped on her ship, sailed from Kirkwall and hadn’t looked back. Their friendship – if you could call it that – was as tumultuous as the seas that Isabela called home. Marian had made some arguably _dumb_ decisions where the pirate was concerned.

Isabela had always known what to do and say to piss her off.

Two years at sea had made a notable difference. Her skin was darker from being in the sun all day, she was wearing _pants._ And her breasts were covered with a wrap that was demure by Isabela standards. Not to mention a _coat._

Marian squinted at the woman in front of her, before inspecting the dirt underneath her fingernails. “I might have been happier to see you, if you hadn’t interrupted.” She remarked cuttingly. Isabela opened her mouth to respond, but Zevran swooped in and interrupted before Isabela could respond. 

Zevran revealed that Marian was subject of a bet. _Again_. Isabela had bet against Marian’s nuptials and had clearly lost. Marriage in Isabela’s mind was as unlikely as Marian taking vows at the Chantry, a reasonable conclusion to come to. It also explained why Isabela was shitty that Marian was naked in the King of Ferelden’s bedchamber.

“This shouldn’t be surprising Isabela, we married weeks ago.” Marian commented lightly. 

Isabella scoffed. “I expected to be invited to the wedding at least.”

Marian shrugged indifferently. “Can’t get a message to you if I don’t know where you are.” It was a bullshit excuse. Marian could have found Isabela if she’d really wanted too. But the truth was, Marian had decided not to bother. Wherever the pirate would have been along the coast, she wouldn’t have made it to Denerim, nor, Marian had believed Isabela would have even tried.

Alistair suggested they take breakfast together, looking pointedly at Marian as he spoke. A much more desirable location to discuss business, including Isabela and Zevran’s bet. Isabela had scoffed at Alistair’s suggestion before storming out, unhappy. Marian crossed to the wardrobe, ignoring Zevran who was chatting happily at an unimpressed Alistair. First Marian pulled one of Alistair’s shirt’s on, now she had to find her pants. Marian had swapped bodily fluids with two of the people joining her for breakfast, there was no need for more formal dining attire. She pulled the cord by the bedside, summoning Alistair’s servant to arrange two additional seats at the breakfast table for their unexpected…guests.

Zevran finally left the room after an appreciate glance at Marian, which she ignored. Standing at the edge of the bed, Marian watched, arms crossed as Alistair pulled pants on. “Unfinished business?” Alistair asked. Marian snorted. 

Marian nodded. “Isabela left Kirkwall two years ago.” Then: “I didn’t know you knew one another.”

Alistair’s cheeks coloured at the question and Marian smirked. “Was it a brothel or a tavern? She was doing shots and getting into a knife fight when I met her.” Marian shared.

Scarlet cheeks blazing. “There was a couple of days at the Pearl…” Alistair trailed off, refusing to offer up anymore. His refusal only intrigued Marian further. She’d press Alistair for the full story later, if there was one story about Isabela Marian wanted to hear, it was how Isabela met Alistair in a Denerim brothel.

“You know that you’re going to tell me all about this later.” Marian told him. Despite the flush in his cheeks, Alistair shot his wife a smirk.

“A king isn’t supposed divulge his deviant past.”

“You’re worried about kingly propriety when Isabela and Zevran are in the same room? Priorities.”

Alistair’s chuckles followed her out of the room.

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

Breakfast was a tense affair. Isabela had somehow raided the palace liquor store, taking sips of Antivan brandy at the breakfast table. Alistair was impressed, but also concerned that Isabela was able to wander about the palace like she owned the place. What was more intriguing was that Alistair hadn’t run into the pirate when he had been in Kirkwall. Zevran on the other hand was always a welcome, if exasperating surprise. The elf popped up infrequently over the years, bringing news from Antiva and of Amell. For all his crudeness, Zevran was Alistair’s friend; one of the better reminders of the year spent besting the Blight.

Zevran seemed to always end up in unexpected places. Marian had connections with Orlesian nobles, _of course_ they knew one another. 

Seated around the smaller dining table in the sunroom, a delicious looking spread had been served. A full breakfast was offered as always. The fresh, buttered bread was comforting after being interrupted, and with it, a boiled egg and mushrooms Alistair just fine.

Zevran got straight to the point. “There’s a matter I need to bring to your attention, _your majesty_.” He said silkily. Alistair turned his attention to Zevran and waited for him to expand, before both men’s attention was drawn to the two women in the room.

Marian was exchanging pointed words with Isabela, but the adage ‘sweet thing’ really didn’t sit well with Alistair. Looking at Isabela, it almost seemed as if the pirate was sulking into her plate of food with a full cup of brandy in hand. Opposite, Zevran chuckled into his meal, wriggling his brows at Alistair when he made an inquiring noise.

“A conversation for later, perhaps.” Zevran said, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Marian was glared at Isabela. “It’s great that it took a _bet_ for you to visit.”

“ _Your_ wedding would have brought me back sooner.” The pirate snapped back. Alistair coughed, trying to capture Marian’s attention. She ignored him, though she did swat his thigh.

“Zevran told me you’re an admiral now. Were you too busy with all your men underneath you to write and tell me?” Alistair was awed at Marian’s ruthlessness. The bitter, verbal daggers that Marian threw at her old friend suggested there was much more to this than not writing a letter. Alistair took a long sip of tea, purposely slurping the liquid from his cup. Marian swatted him on the leg again.

“Are you jealous you only have one now?” Alistair choked on his tea at Isabela’s scathing retort.

“Perhaps that chat? Somewhere private? There is important business to discuss.” Zevran stressed, interrupting Marian before the back and forth could continue. Another slap on his leg, though this time Alistair wasn’t sure what was wrong.

Nodding hastily, Alistair wiped his mouth on his napkin and grabbed his buttered bread. Gesturing to the door, he said to Zevran. “We’ll go to my office.”

The furious look Marian shot Alistair as he made his hasty retreat promised a reckoning later. Alistair directed Zevran in the direction of his office and together, they successfully made their escape. 

The curtains and windows had been opened, spilling warm spring sunlight and a cool waft of air into the room. Alistair sent for a small tray of food so they could finish their interrupted breakfast. Zevran lounged in his chair, eyes set firmly on Alistair. 

“She is a fascinating woman, Marian Hawke.” Zevran prompted. Alistair looked at his friend suspiciously.

“How many times have you tried to sleep with her?” Zevran guffawed.

“I fondly remember a time where you asked me how to woo a lady. Hawke certainly catches one’s eye, doesn’t she?” Zevran’s question was more personal than what it appeared. What he was truly asking was: _what about her?_

Alistair didn’t know how to begin to put it all in words. The changing nature of his relationship with Marian was something that Alistair didn’t know how to explain either. 

“What is so pressing that you came to Denerim in person?” Alistair questioned instead. Zevran was cunning enough that if he wanted to know the finer details of life with Marian Hawke, he wouldn’t relent until he got that information.

Zevran surprisingly didn’t press further. 

“It’s interesting, what you can find when you’re not looking.” Zevran commented with a nod. 

“If this has anything to do with Hawke…” Alistair trailed off with a frown. Talking in riddles was never his forte, Alistair preferred when people got straight to the point.

…No wonder he liked Marian Hawke.

“You will recall that I have been attempting to _dismantle_ the Crows from within?” Zevran asked, brow raised.

“Are you still doing it just for fun?” Alistair asked teasingly. Zevran laughed delightedly before leaning forward in his seat, no longer the picture of a relaxed guest. The time for joking was over, now they were talking business. 

“Recently I found evidence that suggested the Crows are aware of the fate of King Maric Therin.” There were many things Alistair could have imagined Zevran would have wanted to address with him. But _Maric Therin_?

Stranger things had happened, and Alistair hadn’t batted an eyelid. 

King Maric was a man that Alistair learnt about through portraits and second-hand accounts. He’d grown up with the praises of King Maric in his ears. Had prayed and mourned with the rest of Ferelden when Maric had disappeared at sea. At Ostagar, Alistair had met Cailan on the eve of battle with the darkspawn. His _half-brother_.

Question after question came to mind. But even as he stared, stunned, Alistair was unsure what Zevran was trying to tell him. 

Good humour as always, saved the day. “Anddd?” He drawled light heartedly, despite the heavy turn that the conversation had taken.

“I asked some questions, killed some people and asked more questions. There is a prisoner in Velabanchel that fits the missing king’s description.” Anything Alistair knew about Velabanchel was from Zevran, his own spymasters had then fleshed out those stories.

Velabanchel was the Antivan Crow’s infamous legacy. The feared prison was an impenetrable fortress, surrounded by sea and guarded by Crow assassins. Anyone sent there was sent to their death. In Ferelden, prison was used to scare youngsters into good behaviour. The Crows there used the inmates imprisoned there for torturous fun. 

“Are you suggesting that Ferelden needs to tell Antiva to let their captured King go?” Sarcasm dripped from the question. It was concerning where Zevran was going with this. 

Zevran chuckled. “Declaring war on the Crows? I’m game.” He waved his fork dismissively. “ _If_ King Maric is alive, the Archive of the Crows will have a record.”

“So, I’m not declaring war, I’m just committing petty theft?”

Zevran wriggled his brows. “A thieving King does have a compelling ring to it.”

Alistair steered the conversation back on topic. “And how am I meant to know that any of this is true?” Alistair trusted Zevran’s word. He had proved his loyalty and then some over the years. If Zevran suggested that this was something worth following up, then Alistair would. But something of this magnitude would require Ferelden’s decision. Alistair couldn’t make this choice in the interests of Ferelden; this would be a venture that Ferelden made _together_.

Zevran pulled a thick envelope from somewhere on his person and presented it to Alistair. “This is a delicate situation, though I don’t have to tell you so. You will need to go to Antiva City directly.”

“Ferelden has coin, it can finance an expedition for you.” As much as Alistair liked the idea of going on a wild goose chase across Thedas, a King couldn’t simply just up and leave without the blessing of the Landsmeet. 

“A preferable alternative, but not possible, Alistair. I am wanted by the Crows. They would shoot first and ask questions later. You can move with relative immunity.”

Zevran did have a point. “And if these rumours are true, the information of Maric’s whereabouts is worth his weight in gold.” Alistair added, thinking aloud.

“Exactly. How refreshing that a king can see the bigger picture.” Zevran toasted Alistair with his goblet of juice.

Alistair ignored the backwards compliment. “How would you propose I get to Antiva? Ferelden ships are out of the question and merchant ships.”

Zevran leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Currently, there is a Captain of a ship arguing with the Queen of Ferelden.”

Isabela’s presence and this little wager that Zevran had with her finally made sense.

Alistair ran a hand through his hair, thinking quickly. “I have to call a Landsmeet about this. I can’t just go running off on a whim.” Zevran shrugged, nonplussed.

“I am at your service, your majesty.”

Alistair rolled his eyes at Zevran. “This is the whole reason you came to Ferelden in the first place. It wasn’t a bet with Isabela was it?”

“Perhaps we won’t tell Isabela just yet?” Zevran suggested, tongue in cheek.


	18. Part III: Chapter Seventeen: Intersect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: It's great to be back!  
> 2020 has been a difficult year for everyone, but the last couple of months - life, schooling - have been especially challenging and tiring, hence my absence. I'm aiming to post more regularly once more, but not with the speed that was prior to my little hiatus. 
> 
> To those still following, thank you for your patience, I appreciate it. xx 
> 
> \--
> 
> Please note warnings may apply to this chapter.

**Intersect:** (Of two or more things) Pass or lie across each other.

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_   
  


“This is the stupidest idea in the history of all things stupid.” Marian was perched on the desk, arms crossed and staring at the King of Ferelden like he’d sprouted another head. Alistair had been trying to ignore Marian, rather unsuccessfully.

Alistair shook his head and tried once again to explain _why_ Zevran couldn’t go chasing after Maric.

Marian snorted. “This plan is stupid and you’ll get yourself killed.” She insisted.

“It’s not stupid, it’s incomplete.” Alistair persisted. Marian rolled her eyes. 

“So you’ll go galivanting to Antiva City, spark an international incident with the Crows and be back in time for tea?” The sarcasm was heavy in her voice.

“Once I helped Isabela and then I had Qunari swooping in, trying to kill me.” Marian interrupted before Alistair could respond.

“Well yes, swooping is bad.” Alistair quipped and was rewarded with a swat on the shoulder.

Leaning forward, Marian’s eyes met Alistair’s. Despite the clear blue of her eyes, the strong smell of whiskey was heavy on her breath. “If the Landsmeet agrees, you’re going, aren’t you?” The sudden jump in conversation should have been startling, but Alistair had become accustomed to this particular quirk of Marian’s. Sometimes, it seemed like she’d almost forgotten what she was talking about, if the question wasn’t relevant.

“An opportunity to return King Maric to Ferelden is not one that comes along every day.” Alistair chose his words carefully, but he needn’t have bothered. Marian let out a hefty sigh of resigned acceptance. To Alistair, it seemed like she didn’t want him to leave, but wouldn’t admit to it. 

Hopping off the desk, Marian began to pace. “You’ve got a ship and someone to make sure someone won’t stick a knife in your back, but that’s not enough. You need a reason to be in Antiva City and Zevran can’t give you that reason” Marian thought aloud, absently biting her thumb nail as she paced. 

“Marian, I–” Alistair began. Marian shook her head, speaking over him. “–If Zevran fucks you over I’ll castrate him myself.” 

“I trust him with my life –”

“– well I don’t.”

Alistair appreciated Marian’s protectiveness. Zevran had explained to Alistair how he and Marian had crossed paths in the first place. It was any wonder that Marian had let the Antivan near Alistair after her run in with the Crows. Her suspicions were understandable and expected. Alistair put down his pen and linked his fingers together.

Fixing Marian with a pensive look, Alistair changed tactics. “Then help me Hawke. The more I can present to the Landsmeet, the better for everyone.” Marian’s brows raised and she stopped her pacing at Alistair’s statement. As she considered Alistair, brows now furrowed as she stared at her husband, it was hard to suppress the triumphant grin when Marian gave into Alistair’s request.

“We haven’t finished discussing this.” She threatened, waggling her pointer finger at Alistair.

Alistair’s cheery smile was bright. “I didn’t know you cared, Hawke.” He teased.

Marian leaned over the desktop; hands placed on top of Alistair’s work. Their eyes met again and with it came the urge to close the short distance between them. Alistair wondered what Marian would do if he were to kiss her. It was unfamiliar as much as it was welcome. But the moment was lost when Marian flicked Alistair on the nose, and Marian was smiling fondly at him. 

“When you’re setting yourself up to get killed it’s my business, y’know?” Marian pointed out.

“I still can’t believe you truly care.” Alistair insisted as he placed his hand on top of Marian’s. Marian gave a half-hearted tug to get free.

“Thank you, Hawke.” Alistair pressed and Marian shook her head.

“When you get yourself killed, tell the Landsmeet I said: ‘I told you so’.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

Alistair knew that when Marian Hawke set her mind to something, she was determined to see it through. He saw this in how she maintained her duties as both Queen of Ferelden and Viscountess of Kirkwall. Whilst being Queen certainly afforded additional resources at her disposal, Marian had presented additional information that formed a greater picture of just what they were planning to undertake that made Alistair question _how_ she’d acquired it in the first place. It seemed that trying to settle Marian to the idea of him travelling to Antiva, he had gained a better than expected ally.

All in the effort of trying to keep him alive.

 _Are you sure that you can trust this information?_ Alistair had pressed. _It doesn’t matter where it came from, y_ _ou’re going to need this, trust me._ Marian insisted when Alistair had skimmed the pages written in Marian’s cramped handwriting.

But it wasn’t until the meeting Marian Hawke organized with Isabela and Zevran that Alistair saw how capable his Queen truly was. Hunched over grungy maps of Antiva City that were held flat by full jugs of ale, Hawke was in her element. As Zevran talked the room through what needed to be done to recover Maric Therin, _if he was alive,_ Marian bantered with Zevran, challenging him with the knowledge that they had gained _._

More than once, Marian smirked smugly at Alistair. He could practically hear what she was thinking: _You’re planning on breaking into_ _an Antivan Crow puzzle fortress, and you still_ think _it’s a good idea?_

Concentrating on their goal, the opportunity to assess and plan meant that Marian and Isabela were united by a common goal. For Alistair, this was more preferable when the two women were bickering over the better direction to sail, rather than throwing ruthless insults at one another.

A sunny afternoon spent inside gave way to a balmy evening. Alistair was happy to announce a meal was in order after their hard work. Isabela and Marian sauntered ahead, with Hawke slinging an arm over Isabela’s shoulders. Bemused, Alistair watched them go as Zevran carefully rolled the maps.

“How upset was Isabela when she realized that you’d also tricked her into staying?” Alistair questioned. Zevran shrugged, though there was a satisfied smirk.

“Knives were involved. It was quite enjoyable.” Zevran answered lightly. Alistair shook his head at the light-hearted humour.

Zevran and Isabela had a shared history that had never been fully explained. They had run into the pirate at Denerim’s best brothel the Pearl during the Blight. Low on coin, Amell had thought it was a good idea to do odd jobs both for the Antivan Crows _and_ Denerim’s City Guard. Alistair had opted to stay at the Pearl with Oghren instead of becoming a petty thief, sussing out a wayward mercenary company whilst Oghren drank too much beer. But Amell had returned after her little pickpocketing spree and had been immediately recognised. Isabela had swooped into join the party when said wayward mercenary band had descended on them.

Like all those years ago, Isabela and Zevran being in close company was shaping out to be a chaotic ride. With Marian there, if Alistair squinted enough, it was almost like they were all back at the Pearl. Except Marian wasn’t Amell, and Alistair found that fact didn’t bother him at all.

“You could do no worse than Isabela when sailing the Waking Sea. Now that we’ve piqued her interest, she’ll stay.” Zevran let out a low chuckle. “Of course, Hawke is likely an incentive.”

“Incentive in that they want to kill each other?” Another chuckle.

“Hawke is…complicated.”

Alistair couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Really? I would never have noticed.”

Zevran looked at Alistair, an unreadable expression on his face. “I have only ever loved one woman in my life, Alistair. You know this.”

There it was: the one inconvenient truth. Amell and Alistair had loved one another, but it was Zevran who had been able to give her the future that Amell deserved. Only now was Alistair able to accept that he wouldn’t have been able to give Amell what she needed – what she _deserved_. Zevran though, had been the one that had picked up the pieces and had taken Amell far from Ferelden. It was after all, what she deserved. 

“Hawke is to Isabela what Solona is to you.” There was something unsettling about the parallel that Zevran had drawn when explaining the complicated relationship between Hawke and Isabela.

“You mean that they both should be queen?” Alistair asked instead. Zevran nodded knowingly and Alistair chose to look outside the window instead. With night settling over Denerim, the guard were lighting the lamps around the palace. An uneasy silence fell between the two men.

Zevran was the first to speak. “After we left Ferelden, her eyes were red every morning.” Such an insignificant detail shouldn’t have been as painful to hear.

“Solona did what was best for her; she deserves her peace.” And Alistair found he truly wished that Amell had found that peace she had always sought.

Many stressful and sleepless nights had been spent imagining what could have been, followed by the damning realisation that everything Alistair had dreamed of was foolish and wishful. Amell would have hated being queen, ensnared by royal protocol and etiquette. Despite hating the roles that had been thrust upon her, Marian possessed the raw qualities of a strong and intelligent leader. People listened and followed her. She was capable of inspiring others. 

And Alistair stood with Marian Hawke as her equal. Solona Amell would never had been able to stand tall the same way Marian was able too. 

“If I had to bet on anyone, it would be Marian Hawke.” Zevran offered. Alistair’s brows raised at the seemingly unsolicited piece of advice.

“This coming from the unfeeling assassin who tried to kill us multiple times before deciding that you could gain more coin from us?” Alistair ventured almost playfully. Solona Amell would always be a sensitive topic, and not one that Alistair wanted to continue discussing with Zevran. His time with Amell had come and gone, and now Marian stood by his side.

King and assassin walked side by side to the dining room. Alistair walked to join an extraordinary woman who shared the same blood as Amell. And Alistair found that he was content with that.

Zevran clapped Alistair on the back. “It was never anything personal; coin is very persuasive.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

“If I’m going to let Alistair embark on this silly quest to find his lost father, there’s one thing _you_ have to do for me. _You owe me._ ” Marian announced as she slammed the door open.

Marian had expected to find Isabela entwined with other bodies on the bed. Instead, the bed was empty save for the pirate whom Marian had abruptly awoken. Leaning against the doorjamb, Marian crossed her arms and tapped her boot impatiently on the dusty wooden floor.

A muffled _piss off Hawke,_ came from the blankets. 

Marian wouldn’t be deterred on the matter. “I don’t care what the fuck you get up to in your spare time. I will not let you sail into the sunset with _my husband_ _,_ only to get yourselves both killed.” Marian chose to ignore the sudden claim of Alistair as _her_ husband. 

“Jealous, Hawke?” Isabela croaked. A tangled head of dark and curly hair emerged from the blankets. Isabela had always been difficult to wake, yet she would be up at cock’s crow when it suited her.

“Of you? Hardly. I’m more concerned that Alistair is going to get killed.” 

“He’s a king, that’s what kings _do_ , Hawke. They die on glorious quests.” Isabella retorted.

“Not this king Isabela.” Marian responded hotly.

Isabella slid out of bed naked. With a grunt, Marian closed the door behind her. It was more to ensure that what Marian said next would not be overheard, but also to avoid the tricky question of _why_ the Queen of Ferelden was in the Pearl at the crack of dawn.

“Since when did you care?” Isabela sneered as she splashed liquor into two dirty cups and pushed one across the small rickety table for Marian, liquor sloshing everywhere.

Marian refused to reply to Isabela. She wouldn’t give Isabela the satisfaction of being right. The pirate had always been able to see through her after all. Ignoring the other, Marian and Isabela gulped down the foul liquor in in one long swallow.

Isabela lowered her cup and splashed more liquid into it. “So that’s the game you’re going to play? You barge in here and wake me up, then ignore me when I start saying things you don’t like? Typical, Hawke.” 

“It’s not like it ever stopped you from running your mouth when you have an opinion.” Marian snatched the bottle from Isabela’s hand and topped up her drink. It was only the way to get through the conversation. 

“Why did you come to Denerim?” Marian demanded.

Isabela snorted. “I’m wondering the same thing.”

“Bullshit. You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.”

Pirate and Queen glared at one another.

It was inevitable that this argument would happen, it had been brewing for two years now. Two years of cursing Isabela’s existence as Marian dealt with Qunari intent on tearing Kirkwall apart. Isabela had left Kirkwall and Marian had been the one to clean up the monumental shit heap that she’d left behind. The anger, bitterness and hurt had festered for two years as Marian mourned the loss of her friend. With that mourning came the harsh reminder that Marian could only look out for herself. Placing her trust in anyone would lead only to betrayal or death.

Unearthing those two years wasn’t why Marian was standing in Isabela’s room in a Denerim brothel. She was trying to keep Alistair alive, and Isabela had chosen this moment to be a fickle bitch. 

Marian slammed her cup down, rocking the rickety table. “I don’t have time to deal with your bullshit Isabela. I’ll cut to the chase: you’re going to tell me how you’re going to make sure that the King of Ferelden returns from Antiva alive.”

“Alistair can handle himself, sweet-thing.” Isabela shot back.

“I’m about to stand before the Ferelden Landsmeet and tell the nobility that pouring a fuck load of gold into an expedition where you ferry the King to Antiva City and back is a good idea. So tell me: how are you going to keep Alistair alive?” Marian sneered back. Gold was predictable. Gold had always dictated what Isabela said and did _every single fucking time_.

Marian poured another drink.

“What do you want to hear? That I’ll hire someone to back us up?” Isabela asked, exasperated. Marian scoffed. _Of course_ that was Isabela’s response. The only time she expended effort was only when it benefitted her. This time Marian forwent tipping liquor into her cup, opting to drink straight from the bottle.

“You and I both know that’s how _everyone_ gets killed. Put in some effort for once in your damned life.” Marian felt no satisfaction in seeing the flash of pain cross Isabela’s face.

“Is there anyone you’ll trust more than Varric with this?” Isabela burst out before promptly shutting her mouth. Marian could see the idea forming in her mind. Isabela was right of course, Marian trusted Varric implicitly. For Varric to leave Kirkwall, it would mean more delegation and multiple trips to Kirkwall to ensure order was kept. It would be the trade-off for keeping the King of Ferelden alive, but Marian had suffered worse things.

“We both know that he’ll do this, Varric can never resist an adventure.” Isabella insisted, practically beseeching Marian now. Once again, Isabela was right: Varric was the best and most trustworthy option. And he’d be able to provide the cover that Alistair needed. 

_For fuck’s sake_.

“Fine. I’ll send instructions after you leave for Kirkwall” Marian snapped in agreement. Turning on her heel, Marian yanked open the door. “Does Alistair know that you’re snorting that shit every night?” Isabela’s question had Marian pausing on the threshold.

“You walked out of my life two years ago Isabela. Don’t think you can just saunter back into it. Make sure Alistair comes back alive and I won’t kill you where you stand.” Marian said coldly.

The door shuddered on its hinges when Marian slammed it shut behind her.

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

“This is a stupid idea.” Marian repeated for what was probably the hundredth time that day.

Even with Varric on board and Isabela’s backward promise, something about the expedition didn’t sit right. Foresight and premonitions were notions that Marian didn’t believe in, but Marian had learnt not to ignore the nagging feeling in her belly. _Gut instinct_ , her father had called it. So Marian had voiced her concerns, and Alistair would sit and listen to her unending list of reasons of _why_ with an amused expression on his face. Then he would thank her for her concern and continued support despite her misgivings, accompanied with a sweet kiss.

Usually, Marian was metaphorically stabbed in the back by some pompous noble for objecting. It was unnerving to be thanked for the show of concern. She’d concluded that Alistair had finally lost the last of his marbles.

The Landsmeet vote had played out exactly how Marian had thought it would.

Maric Therin, the King of Ferelden – _Alistair’s father_ – had been lost to the Waking Sea and now, after all this time, there a glimmer of hope for Ferelden. It was only natural that the Landsmeet had decided in favour of the King of Ferelden, _his son_ , seeking to answer the question that every Ferelden pondered: _what happened to King Maric_?

At the Landsmeet, Marian had seen the men and women that she pegged as Alistair’s dissenters – _her dissenters_ , moving with renewed opportunity. Marian saw them by the subtle way that some moved, leaning into one another and exchanging words Marian wanted to hear. She didn’t like it, as much as she didn’t like Alistair going into dangerous territory where he could only trust Isabela, Zevran and Varric.

Alistair slid his hand across the smooth oak table, fingers capturing hers and squeezing them reassuringly. Marian looked at the dinner plate in front of her, then Alistair’s hand on top of hers.

“This is stupid.” She repeats. 

Alistair picks up his knife. “Careful Hawke, I’m starting to think you care.” He teases, spearing a piece of beef on his knife and shoving it into his mouth. Marian shouldn’t have found such an act endearing, but she did. 

Instead of answering, Marian opted to shove her buttered bread roll into her mouth. Chewing on soft bread was much safer then responding.

Alistair answered for Marian. “Alistair darling, the love of my life; how am I ever to go on without you?” He mimicked melodramatically. Despite her best efforts, Marian smiled at Alistair’s antics. Swallowing her mouthful of food, Marian opened her mouth to push her point, but was cut off by a sharp squeeze of her fingers.

“If you keep worrying like that, your hair will fall out.” Marian blinked, unsure just how the conversation had taken the turn it had.

“When you get yourself killed, I’ll have much more than just my hair falling out.” Marian snipped. Alistair smirked and once again, Marian found herself grinning back at him. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, if I could write to you, while I’m away?” Alistair’s smirk turned into an uncertain smile. There was the slightest hint of red staining his cheeks.

 _Of course Alistair talks like he’s going to a bleeding over-night stay in Orlais,_ Marian thought with a roll of her eyes. She frowned as Alistair started to fiddle with his knife.

“I wasn’t planning on ruling _your_ country single-handedly whilst you’re off gallivanting in Antiva.” Alistair let go of his knife with a clatter and Marian wondered if she’d missed some hidden meaning in his request. “I mean, we’re pretending this marriage is fucking great and –” Realizing that she was blathering on, Marian snapped her mouth shut. Her hand was still in Alistair’s, and Marian squeezed his fingers, staring at their joined hands.

“Regardless of our arrangement, I’ve become…accustomed to your company. I’ll miss it. I would like to hear from you.” Alistair admitted, his cheeks turning a darker red.

Alistair’s admission surprised Marian, enough that she blurted without thinking: “Why?” For some reason, Marian found she couldn’t look Alistair in the eye. Alistair squeezed her fingers again sharply, making Marian look up.

Marian had seen Alistair as a man and as a king. But right now, he exuded a boyish charm. The implications of Alistair’s request were suddenly made clear with his flushed cheeks and uncertainty. No one had ever asked to write to Marian, not that she would have answered them. Marian had vivid memories of Carver’s crude attempts to write to Peaches before Bethany had transformed his blundering sentences into pretty words that echoed his affections.

It occurred to Marian then, that Peaches didn’t know that Carver never reached Kirkwall.

Marian’s past relationships – if you could call them that – had never echoed the likes of Carver and Peaches. Bryant had pushed her away as the darkspawn threatened to overrun Lothering. He was a noble and spiritual man who had whispered sweet nothings into her ear when Marian was still naïve enough to think that the world could become better. Isabela had been a momentary distraction that had become too complicated and Sebastian…Sebastian was a man of little words on paper.

Alistair was her husband in name only. Yet he was her friend, and yet… it was Alistair who sat across from her, holding her hand and asking if he can write to her. He sat holding her hand, acting as if he wanted to return to this sham of a home that they’d started to build together.

 _You’re overthinking this_. Marian chastised herself. She pulled her hand out of Alistair’s and stood stiffly, her chair scraping on the floor. “I’m going to bed.” Marian announced. Silence accompanied her out of the dining room, stopping only to grab the bottle of whiskey that sat on the table.

Habit took her straight to Alistair’s room and instead of over thinking such habits, Marian worked her way through the whiskey before climbing into bed. She lay there, hoping for sleep before Alistair retired for the night.

But Marian would never be so lucky.

Alistair slid into the bed – _their bed_ – warming the cold covers almost instantly. Yet another habit that Marian had become accustomed too. Lying on her side, facing away from Alistair, Marian curled up into a ball, trying to forget that the next time she climbed into bed, she would be alone once again. She didn’t move when Alistair’s hand slid over her bare waist and up between her breasts, his warm form moulding against hers. She sighed in resignation. Another habit that she would miss.

“I want to hear from you, Marian.” Alistair breathed into her ear before familiar lips pressed against her cheek. She didn’t respond, instead closing her eyes as she felt the familiar rise and fall of Alistair’s chest against her back.

“Marian…” Alistair insisted, and Marian gave in, committing the feeling to memory because that was all she could do. She let out a shuddering breath, the only indication that she was truly affected by this sudden change. Another kiss on her cheek. In Alistair’s arms, Marian could almost admit that she had found a sense of safety, which would be gone when he stepped onto the _Siren’s Call._

Forgetting herself, Marian turned to face Alistair. Their noses brushed together as Marian twined her legs with his.

Her cheeks burned. “Every port, you’ll write.” It was a demand that hid an uncertain question behind it, but Alistair seemed to understand what she was trying to say. He always did. 

“Every port and then some.”

This time Alistair kissed her on the lips, slow and sweet like he too was trying to commit this moment to memory. “Every port.” He promised.


	19. Part III: Chapter Eighteen: Wanting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After making a mistake and double posting the last chapter, which OptimisticBunny so kindly pointed out to me (thank you so much!), here is the _actual_ Chapter Eighteen. 
> 
> As usual, please note that warnings may apply to this chapter.

**Wanting:** Not existent; absent. 

_Somewhere on the Waking Sea, 9:38 Dragon_

_Hawke_ –

Alistair considered the letter, suddenly unsure what to write. In the late afternoon, Alistair was content to watch the coastline slide by. The shoreline blended with the tree line, the green giving way to the changing blue hues of the sea. Alistair had decided to begin his next letter whilst he idled on the top deck, the salty breeze refreshing on his face. The _Siren’s Call_ had departed Kirkwall a few days ago. It had been over two weeks since Alistair had left Ferelden. _Left Marian_. True to his word, Alistair had sent a letter to Denerim before leaving Kirkwall.

Their detour to Kirkwall had been unexpected. When Alistair had questioned the reason for such a detour, Zevran had not provided an answer. _Isabela has some business to attend too_ , he had answered cryptically.

Isabela’s errand had greeted the _Siren’s Call_ in Kirkwall harbour. Varric Tethras, Vogt of Kirkwall, and beloved friend of Marian Hawke was joining their quest to Antiva City.

After disembarking, Varric escorted Alistair through the streets of Kirkwall. The city was nothing like what he remembered. This Kirkwall was a shadow of its former self, not at all like the one that used to rage with life. They passed streets that were closed off, the heavy constant thuds of construction providing a continuous pulse underneath the sounds of city-life. 

The stark differences between Kirkwall’s poor and elite were made clear when they crossed into Hightown. _No wonder Marian was so pissed_ , Alistair had thought. The wealthy district of Kirkwall was pristine, clean streets and new buildings that gleamed in the sun. If one sought a glaring example of poverty and opulence, it could be found in Kirkwall.

Varric showed Alistair to a manor that did not match its neighbours. The brickwork had been scorched black and many of its windows were bordered up. Compared to its neighbours, this manor was an eyesore. Inside the courtyard, Alistair saw the familiar device of the Hawke family. Flinging his arm out in a grand gesture, Varric Tethras welcomed Alistair to the _Hawke Estate_. 

_She sought to lead by example and the nobles had not followed her_ , Alistair had thought to himself.

Zevran and Isabela had joined Alistair and Varric that night. Both Varric and Alistair had spent their evening drinking spirits and talking about the one woman they in common: Marian Hawke. Alistair woke up back aboard the _Siren’s Call_ , his head splitting in two from too much drink and Isabela’s voice ringing in his ears as she called for the anchor to be raised. 

Yes, he should definitely describe his time in Kirkwall to Hawke.

“I didn’t actually believe Isabela when she said that you were writing to Hawke.” Varric’s voice interrupted Alistair’s musings. Varric had made himself comfortable on a supply chest, his own folio of paper and pen in hand, positioned so he would not have to squint from the setting sun’s rays.

Alistair regarded Varric, brows raised. Ferelden had hired Isabela and had paid her a considerable stipend for her services. Zevran had explained that Varric Tethras had merchant connections in Antiva. Alistair had found it convenient that the businessman that would be their cover in Antiva City also happened to be an individual that Marian trusted implicitly. But those coincidences did not explain how Varric had anticipated a sudden departure from Kirkwall. A trunk had been packed and his duties had been delegated well in advance. 

“Silence eh? Hawke _is_ rubbing off on you.” Alistair chuckled at Varric’s quip.

A thought occurred to Alistair and he scribbled a pointed sentence. “And what did Hawke say to get you to come on this little…jaunt with us?” Alistair queried. This time, it was Varric’s turn to chuckle.

“What did Hawke say that has you sitting there, trying to write a letter?” Varric questioned with a knowing look.

A sudden nervousness settled over Alistair, much like when he had spoken with Aveline Vallen when he had wed Marian. Aveline had certainly implied a gruesome end, should he take a wrong step with Marian. When Alistair had reassured the Guard Captain of Kirkwall that he was confident Marian would save her the trouble, Aveline had laughed. If Aveline Vallen was Hawke’s overprotective mother-figure, then Varric Tethras was the father-figure. Both were people that should not be crossed and Alistair was sitting on a ship with one of them.

Alistair cleared his throat. Varric let out a long and deep laugh, saluting Alistair with his pen. It was enough to relax for the moment. Varric moved to sit beside Alistair, the better to hear one another over the echoing crashing of waves against the hull of the ship. “Just how much did Hawke orchestrate all of this?” Alistair tried instead.

Another chuckle. “Isabela hired me with Ferelden’s money at _Hawke’s_ suggestion.” Varric revealed and Alistair slapped his thigh victoriously. Alistair added another pointed comment – _still trying to keep me alive?_ _–_ to his short paragraph.

“Hawke is very determined to keep me alive.” Alistair commented.

“Hawke is very determined to avoid travelling by ship.” Varric cracked and Alistair chuckled at Varric’s quip.

“Hawke stopped going out of her way for most people a long time ago. Yet here we are on our way to Antiva chasing the greatest unsolved mystery of Ferelden royalty.” Varric scratched his chin with the end of his pen. Alistair was not quite sure what Varric was trying to say, so he stayed silent.

“Hawke will move mountains for those that she cares about. If Hawke thought that taking me out of Kirkwall so you wouldn’t be killed says a lot.” Varric finished. _Hawke likes you_.

Alistair did not realize that he was smiling until Varric commented – _flies will land in your mouth_. He liked Marian Hawke, they were friends and lovers when it suited them both. She was fuelled by an unspoken bitterness, her mood could turn from sarcastically happy to inconsolable fury with the turn of a knife and yet…Marian Hawke challenged him by speaking her mind, by showing an unyielding strength when she had a sword in her hand. Alistair remembered clearly the first time he had looked into those bright blue eyes and the many times since. Often, they flashed with outrage, or offered insight into a profound sadness. 

Alistair liked Marian Hawke. She was a friend and lover, she challenged him not only intellectually but with her sword as well. It was too bad that Marian was not here with him. Alistair tried to ignore the sudden yearning to see her. Everything that Marian Hawke had done to get him to this point, Alistair appreciated.

Alistair appreciated _her_.

“Perhaps you should mention _that_ in your letter.” Varric suggested with a knowing nod. Flicking his folio open, Varric begin to write quickly. Alistair watched Varric write, words coming much easier to the dwarf.

“Marian doesn’t talk much about Kirkwall. Will she be able to manage from Denerim?” Turning the conversation away from personal matters was easy. 

As Regent, Eamon would manage the majority of Ferelden’s business. As Queen, Marian would perform Alistair’s lesser duties. Combined with her obligations to Kirkwall, Alistair was concerned that Marian would burn herself out sooner rather than later. When voicing his concerns to Teagan, his uncle had promised to keep a watchful eye on Marian. Alistair did not want to return to Denerim and find that Marian had reverted to her former skeletal self.

“Kirkwall and Hawke’s relationship is…complicated. As a king, you understand.” Varric answered cryptically. It was not an answer, but a question for a question.

Alistair had not expected a clear answer. Ruling or governing over any amount of people was a challenge. Governing amidst devastation was another challenge on top of the pressure that came with the higher office. For Ferelden, the country possessed resources, natural and manufactured that allowed the country to thrive. After the Blight, the economy was boosted through the coin of its Banns and Arls. This prompted economic growth and allowed homes, towns, and villages to be rebuilt. Kirkwall did not have the same luxury. Without natural resources to rely on and a lack of support from its nobility, stimulating an economy that had no profitable income was akin to pulling water from stone.

“Hawke’s reconstruction efforts were resisted.” Alistair tried instead.

Varric’s good humour was gone now, sobered by Alistair’s question. “Hawke has had her work cut out for her for years now.” Varric paused. “Returning to Ferelden was the best thing she’s done for herself in a long time.” He finished.

Varric’s cryptic explanation left Alistair with more questions than answers. He promised himself that when he returned home – to _Marian_ – he would ask her what had happened to bring her to Ferelden. He had gleaned some of the details here and there, but it was not enough to track the events that had brought her to him.

The bell signalling crew rotation for the evening sounded with a jarring clang. Alistair had insisted on being added to the crew roster. He knew that Isabela would not deny any additional hands-on deck. Alistair enjoyed the changing pace of work aboard the _Siren’s Call_. Maintaining a ship at sea was very different work to what Alistair knew. Though he was King, no amount of pomp and circumstance would change Alistair contributing to the everyday maintenance of the _Siren’s Call_ whilst he was aboard. His upbringing had ensured that. 

The bell rang again, prompting Alistair into action. His cheeks were hot and his ears burned as he signed off his letter. Alistair was no poet, but he was undeniably a romantic. _Marian will laugh when she reads this_ , he thought to himself. The yearning to see Marian had grown stronger, the need to return home to _her._ So Alistair wrote what he could not utter aloud: 

_I miss spending the night with you, I miss lying with you in bed._

_I miss you._

_– Alistair_

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Denerim, 9:39 Dragon_

Someone knocked on the door to Alistair’s office and Marian jerked awake. Her head pounded from too much drink the night before combined with sleeping on a stack of papers at her – _Alistair’_ s desk. Alistair’s aide had reminded her that the Landsmeet was two weeks away, so Marian had thrown herself into the preparations for the annual meeting. Even though Ferelden’s administrative affairs were straight forward, reviewing them was a convoluted process. Acting in place of Alistair, Eamon had taken on Alistair’s workload though Marian had insisted on the additional work to distract herself. It had been over a year since Marian had come to Ferelden and she still sat at a desk with bottles of whiskey and cut lyrium, working through the night to stave off her damning thoughts. The only difference was Marian had traded her office in the Viscount’s Keep for the Ferelden King’s one in Denerim. 

Another persistent knock had Marian pushing herself upright. Answering the office door required more energy than it was worth. Finally, Marian succeeded in opening the door and was rewarded with a roil of nausea. It was either because Marian had too much to drink again or because Threnn Meier was standing on the threshold.

“A letter for _your majesty_ ” Threnn sneered. Marian snatched the envelope out of Threnn’s hand and slammed the door in the former soldier’s face. When Cauthrien had exposed Anora’s plot, Threnn’s role had been revealed. Threnn’s actions had been damaging and there had been discussion to prosecute Threnn for aiding and abetting Anora. Unfortunately for Marian and fortunately for Threnn, the evidence required to prove the charge had been circumstantial. Alistair had decided – against Marian’s better judgement – to retain Threnn’s service and had further restricted her to duties within the palace only. To Marian, Threnn Meier was a problem for another day, preferably when her head was not pounding.

Alone once more in the relative safety Alistair’s office, Marian grabbed the last bottle of whiskey and took a desperate gulp. Relief accompanied the familiar burn; Marian was sure that her headache lessened from just one swig. Assuming that the letter was from Sebastian, who had been writing more frequently, Marian dropped the sealed envelope on the desk. Seeing the familiar writing, Marian picked up the letter.

Alistair’s letter could not have come sooner.

It had been brought up a number of times that Marian give the Landsmeet a statement regarding the progress into recovering King Maric Therin. Ferelden had invested a considerable sum into sending their King away to return with answers and as such a report where possible was needed. Marian was not quite sure how she was meant to stand up and announce to every man and his dog that Alistair was alive and in the company of a pirate, Kirkwall’s _vogt_ , and a former Antivan Crow with ties to the Hero of Ferelden. 

When described like that, even Teagan had been disheartened. 

A letter was a good sign that Alistair had not been killed yet. Of course, Marian was not anxiously checking the weeks between letters or anything. She also had not anxiously torn the envelope open and made herself comfortable with a whiskey in hand in Alistair’s chair. Marian enjoyed reading Alistair’s complaints when Varric and Zevran ganged up on him. And whilst having the moment recounted was never as good as experiencing it in the moment, it made Marian laugh. That was something at least.

A letter was also a sure sign that Isabela had yet to regress on her word and run off with Ferelden’s coin. Once upon a time, if Isabela gave her word, then you could trust her. But after the Arishok, Marian trusted Isabela’s word as far as she could spit. According to Alistair’s latest letter, they were on route to Llomerryn. That was positive at least.

Isabela had told Marian many stories about her various escapades in the southernmost port city in Rivain territory. It did not matter who you were or what you did in Llomerryn, if you had coin and knew how to assert your will with a knife, you’d fit right in. Llomerryn’s culture espoused everything that was Marian’s idea of a good time: underground traded goods, booze, and a good knife fight. 

Finishing off the last of the whiskey, Marian decided that Alistair in Llomerryn was not the best place for Alistair to be after all. 

It was obvious that Alistair wrote one letter over a number of days, a detail that Marian found particularly endearing. She had not thought nor expected Alistair to heed a promise made in the heat of the moment when Marian had been panicking over the realisation that she would be left to rule alone in a country that she had no real ties with. The letter was the unwelcome reminder that Alistair would not be home sooner rather than later.

_Home_. Marian did not know when she had begun to associate it with Alistair. Clearly the lack of sleep was addling her mind again.

The letter turned to business surrounding the Landsmeet, including advice and instructions on how to best handle the Landsmeet politicking. It was one thing to allow Ferelden nobles to make inconspicuous displays of disrespect with Alistair in the room, but another to allow disrespect in his absence. Alistair offered simple pieces of advice that would stop her from gutting the Arls of Denerim and Edgehall for existing. Alistair had also provided a rough draft statement for the Landsmeet.

And whilst Marian appreciated that Alistair strove to guide her through the Landsmeet, she dearly wanted to beat some sense into her idiot husband. Their letters may be written in code, but with the _Siren’s Call_ far north of Ferelden, all it would take was one pair of eyes to recognise the King of Ferelden amongst thieves and pirates. A bag of coin given to the messenger would be all it took to intercept communication between the King and Queen of Ferelden and to peek into Ferelden affairs.

_What a bloody fool_ , Marian chastised fondly.

But the familiar concluding statement was what really boosted Marian’s mood and inspired a pessimistic optimism that she would receive another letter. Alistair’s personal note, Marian told herself constantly was an on-going joke. The punchline would be revealed when Alistair finally returned to Ferelden. Marian still appreciated the additional seconds taken to write _I miss you._

Marian took deep breath and sighed out her answer: _I miss you too._

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

Eamon regarded Marian with a look like Marian was a favourite niece that he had to deny sweets.

“I’m sorry Hawke, but the earliest that you can return to Kirkwall is one week past the Landsmeet.” He told her regretfully. It was not what Marian wanted to hear, but she had been prepared to be told that she could not leave Ferelden at all.

In response, Marian had given Eamon the statement that she had prepared, with Alistair’s help.

The rough draft that Alistair had provided Marian had been transformed to include a statement regarding Ferelden’s King as well as assure the people of her competency. Marian could not publicly announce Kirkwall’s business, but Marian _could_ remind the public that she had governed Kirkwall from Denerim for the past year. Even with Alistair’s absence, she was capable of governing the country from across the Waking Sea.

As Alistair had continuously reminded Marian in the first months of their marriage, being Queen meant she had the leisure to disregard advice from Ferelden’s nobility. Without Eamon and Teagan, Marian was pretty certain Ferelden would have fallen apart on the first day after Alistair’s departure. It was in Marian’s best interests to heed their advice. Not that Marian ever admit such a thing.

But Kirkwall was crumbling apart once more, despite Marian’s efforts to be the glue that kept the city together. 

First, there was the letter from Aveline, concerned about the situation in the Gallows. There had been isolated incidents involving templars and civilians, which Cullen had dealt with directly. But now these incidents were becoming more and more frequent. Then Cullen had written, describing these incidents and other equally concerning events. Certain members of Kirkwall’s elite had approached him to discuss matters of governance. Varric’s absence at the Viscountess’s behest they claimed, showed an incompetency in governing Kirkwall. This was contrary to the reports that Marian was receiving weekly from the Keep. She had confirmed that she would return to Kirkwall with these disturbances after the Landsmeet and her obligations to Ferelden had been fulfilled.

If these events were not concerning on their own, receiving a letter from the _Coterie_ was the icing on the cake. 

Marian had managed to maintain a not-so-friendly relationship with Kirkwall’s underground. First as a ‘concerned citizen’, she had trod on the Coterie’s toes. Then as Champion of Kirkwall, Marian had poked the sleeping beast. As Viscountess, it was like rubbing salt on a festering wound. Despite this strained history, the Coterie and Viscountess were united on one front: tempering the power and influence of Kirkwall’s elite. Thus, Kirkwall’s Viscountess and the Coterie had come to an unspoken truce: keep the elite in check and the Coterie would not run the Viscountess into the ground.

Through Varric’s contacts, Marian had able to nurture and maintain this truce. The Coterie could do what it did best, so long as it did not attract the attention of Kirkwall’s Guard-Captain. It was not unusual to find the occasional report from an anonymous source placed on her desk in Kirkwall. Receiving correspondence from the Coterie describing an angry madness plaguing Darktown’s residents was the last straw. Kirkwall could no longer be governed from afar. Time had long passed that Marian should have returned to clean up Kirkwall’s mess yet _again._

It was not in Kirkwall’s best interests to air the city’s dirty laundry. Nor was it in Marian’s best interests to share with Ferelden’s Regent that she not only actively endorsed criminal activities, but willingly turned a blind eye to an underground cartel’s continued operation. Marian was determined to find a solution that would satisfy Eamon and Ferelden without neglecting Kirkwall. It would be easier to announce her departure and leave, but she did not. Marian owed it to Alistair to _try_ and find a suitable compromise.

“There is a sensitive situation in Kirkwall that has been on-going.” Marian began, choosing her words carefully. Eamon looked up from his reading, giving Marian his full attention. “This situation is affecting civilians and I cannot delegate this problem to someone else.” Less was always more. 

“Hawke you have Ferelden resources at your disposal,” Eamon reminded Marian gently. She shook her head, but Eamon spoke over her. “Ferelden needs it’s Queen at the Landsmeet, I can have a ship ready for your departure the day afterwards.”

“Why not bring the Landsmeet forward? I will not neglect Ferelden, but I will not leave Kirkwall either. Whomever complains can come to me _after_ I return.” Marian had no need to demand, her authority was in her voice.

Eamon nodded. “Of course, your majesty.” Eamon confirmed, making quick notes. 

Satisfied for the moment at least, Marian was already thinking past the Landsmeet. She could leave Denerim the night after the Landsmeet had concluded. With Ferelden’s nobility drinking deeply, they would be unlikely to notice their Queen had leaving under the cover of darkness.

Hiding the small smile of victory, Marian pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her and began writing to Fergus Cousland. Her request was likely a long shot, but one never got anywhere without asking.

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

Marian looked out of the carriage window, watching the approach to Vigil’s Keep. A day had passed since Marian had ducked out of the Landsmeet into a waiting carriage and making for Amaranthine. From Amaranthine, a ship would be waiting to take her to Kirkwall, much to her chagrin. Writing to Fergus had proved to be a gamble that had paid off. The teryn had not only convinced Eamon that departing Denerim sooner would mean a quicker return but had also arranged secure transportation to Kirkwall. 

Fergus had refused to indulge how he had managed these arrangements, stating that it was a rare moment when the Queen of Ferelden was in his debt. Convincing Eamon Guerrin of anything was an ability that even Alistair had not mastered. When Marian had inquired how she would repay this debt, Fergus had asked Marian to share her whiskey. Marian had happily obliged.

The Landsmeet had gone about as well as it could have gone with Eamon handling the proceedings, much to Marian’s relief. Her speech to the Landsmeet had been met with equal parts appreciation and uproar. Alistair’s letter two weeks prior had been a clear indication that he would arrive in Antiva by the time of the Landsmeet, which had been met with murmurs of awe and hope. Marian’s reassurances that she would not neglect Ferelden whilst in Kirkwall were not met with the same reception. Only Eamon’s own statement supporting Marian’s decision stayed any real objections from Ferelden’s nobility, which Marian was thankful for.

The Landsmeet feast was a true trial of patience, with Marian forced to answer the same questions repeatedly. _How is the King progressing in Antiva? What business forces your return to Kirkwall? How long will Kirkwall detain you from focusing on Ferelden?_ Each repeated question had Marian tightening her hold on the goblet of wine, which was not topped up fast enough. 

Fergus came to Marian’s rescue as the night went on, smoothly explaining that he required the Queen’s attention. It was only when they were in the carriage making for Amaranthine that Marian let out a sigh of relief, thanking Fergus for the steady rescue with a clap on the shoulder. 

Her travel companion sat opposite Marian, snoring softly, his cloak bunched up as a makeshift pillow on the side of the carriage. The rocking movement of the carriage had kept Marian wide awake, but Fergus had fallen asleep hours ago. Marian shook Fergus awake as Vigil’s Keep grew closer. 

Vigil’s Keep was located on the outskirts of the City of Amaranthine. Far enough away to support an army, but close enough to march to protect if needed. Warden-Commander Leonie had described the Grey Warden base to Marian with startling accuracy and detail, but as the carriage slowed as it rounded to stop in front of the doors, Leonie had left out one significant detail: Elissa Cousland. 

The very same Elissa Cousland who was waving excitedly at their arrival.

Fergus jumped out of the carriage, hurrying to his sister before the carriage had stopped completely. Marian followed after at a more sedate pace, wary of the reception she would receive. The last time Marian had seen Elissa Cousland, her world had been turned upside down. Though Marian was an honoured guest to Vigil’s Keep, Marian was happy to leave the Cousland siblings to their reunion and show herself inside. Then Marian would be out of sight and out of mind of Elissa’s continued fury.

Before she could make herself scarce, Elissa hurried down stone steps with her skirts bunched in one hand. “Your Majesty, welcome to Vigil’s Keep!” Elissa declared, arms coming to wrap around Marian in a tight embrace. 

Marian Hawke, Queen of Ferelden froze, not expecting such an eager reception. Fergus caught Marian’s eye and nodded encouragingly, prompting Marian to respond to Elissa’s hug, patting Elissa’s back awkwardly. 

“I know you will be tired, let me show you to your quarters so you can rest.” Elissa urged. Still baffled by the reception, Marian allowed Elissa to guide her and Fergus inside the Keep.

Vigil’s Keep was bustling with activity. The tour was meant to be a quick one, until they had come across a Grey Warden whose face Marian had seen in Kirkwall: Nathaniel Howe. The Grey Warden had been in Kirkwall investigating the thaig where the red lyrium had been found. It was sheer coincidence that Marian had met the Grey Warden. Their meeting had Marian deeming the Grey Wardens as bunch of suspicious idiots when Nathaniel had explained _how_ he had been able to track Marian’s route. The Grey Wardens had contacted Bartrand, as reaching out to Marian or Varric directly had been deemed ‘risky’. Marian would be having stern words with the Warden Commander when she returned to Ferelden. 

Reunions aside, Marian quickly noticed how Nathaniel Howe smiled at Elissa and touched her elbow, making a point to escort her when Nathaniel joined their little tour of the Keep. Marian also noticed the way Elissa’s cheeks were tinged a pleasant pink whenever she spoke to the Grey Warden. Fergus nudged Marian when both Elissa and Nathaniel had walked on ahead, too caught up in one another’s presence to notice that Marian and Fergus wandered slowly behind them.

When she was left to her own devices, Marian found she did not want to sleep. Unsure what to do with herself, Marian took a leaf out of Alistair’s book and made for the Vigil’s Keep library. 

To Marian, no library in Ferelden could compare to the palace library. But in a pinch, the Vigil’s library would do. Marian made herself comfortable and asked for pen and paper. With it, she also received a tea tray stocked with black tea and barley water, as well as a plate of savoury pickings. Ignoring the tea, Marian picked at the plate of food which had a creamy cheese, pickled onions, smoked cod, ham, and fresh bread.

As she ate, she wrote to Alistair.

It was too dangerous to explain why she had to leave Ferelden so urgently, only that she needed to go home. Alistair would read between the lines. Marian also described Elissa’s enthusiastic welcome, knowing that Alistair still nursed some guilt over how he was forced to resolve Elissa’s situation. _Elissa is happy here,_ Marian wrote. _Her new home is benefiting from her presence and, she was eager to show me about. You don’t need to hold onto that guilt anymore._

Writing to Alistair was a cathartic exercise. It would never be the same as sitting down with a drink and having a conversation, but for the minutes that Marian wrote to her husband, she was able to forget what was happening outside. But like every other letter, Marian always would find herself lost at what else to say. Rather than stare at the paper, Marian reiterated that upon her arrival in Kirkwall, she would send another letter.

Signing her name, Marian paused. On previous letters, Marian would stare at her name before sealing the letter into its envelope and sending it away. This time, Marian added her own personal note. It was not romantic like Alistair’s words, but the sentiment was the same. 

_I wish you were here. I wish that you were not so far away._

_– M. Hawke_


End file.
